


The Black Wave

by poetatertot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreamsharing, Fluff and Angst, Godzilla and Mario Kart, Keith never cleans his goddamn house, M/M, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pre-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-22 19:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12489312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetatertot/pseuds/poetatertot
Summary: Life at the end of the world could almost be called normal, if not a little nuts. The convenience store Keith works at gets the same customers. He still walks to the taqueria every week to get hot food. He hasn't even had to speak to his adoptive sister in months.Life could almost be called normal.. until Lance walks in one day and changes everything.A story about dreams, destiny, and finding someone to call home when the day is done.





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> After I wrote [AYSOI](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11681169) I couldn't stop thinking about what a pre-apocalyptic world would be like.. So two months ago I sat down and started this project.  
> This AU draws inspo primarily from a novel by a favorite author of mine (but nobody dies at the end! Lmao just getting that out of the way). Enjoy!

Their August was the beginning of the end.

They saw the collapse coming in the shape of burning rainforests and melting ice caps, in the rise of new incurable disease strains, in the unstoppable climb of the thermometer past the point of no return.

And then, the real kicker:

_“Scientists predict the exact date of mutual destruction to be August 12th of next year, at 12:00 o’clock PST — our last midnight here on the west coast.”_

_Great,_ Keith thinks, chewing on an old fruit leather. The acrid sourness of pressed cherries burns his tongue. _I don’t even get to have my birthday._

He turns the TV off and predicts his final birthday to be the same as the last one: uncelebrated, alone. That’s all he’s ever known to be, after all.

The fireman sexy calendar nailed above his bucket-sized sink says next August 12th will also be a Tuesday.

“Fuck,” he hisses, spitting a stray seed out into the drain. The crumpled wrapper flies towards his trash bin but never quite makes it there. Few things do. “That’s taco night.”

+

Even at the end of the world, Mickey has the gall to be a cold-blooded capitalist.

“They all think they’ll be able to make it,” he sneers, popping his gum at the register. “Watch. We’ll make a fuckin’ boatload staying open 24 hours.” He seems to have forgotten that the corner mini-mart has been both impossibly cheap and available at all ungodly hours for a year now. “I’ll pay you double if you pick up slack.”

What Mickey means is that, as one of three indentured slaves to _Mick’s Mart’s_ evil agenda, Keith is expected to mop up Mickey’s inevitable vomit splatter when he gets drunk on a Wednesday afternoon and can’t hold it down in the canned foods aisle.

“Sure,” he replies. As if he has a choice on the matter. Mickey smiles with all the glory two missing teeth can lend and leaves his shift early.

Apocalypse or not, time rolls on at a steady pace. The flats on either side of Keith’s empty out overnight, leaving him ten bucks poorer and thousands of precious hours quieter. Quieter because old Delilah liked to sing Electric Light Orchestra at 5 in the morning, regardless of day of the week. Poorer no thanks to his other fuck of a neighbor, Klepto Karl. Bastard ran out with his kitty-cat doormat.

The flat he’s called home since emancipation remains the same, though California crumbles into the sea: Arizona-white walls and stained-grey nub carpet, one-man kitchen merging into a living room that holds no more than a TV, a glass table (you know the one), and bookshelf of old mock-survival guides that Acxa always shoved off as Christmas gifts. The mattress is also there, nestled under the window beside a balcony screen pecked to shreds by sparrows.

He doesn’t bother with the back room. It has his clothes and nothing else.

One might think that hanging around South Beach’s sickly, destitute brother for the last year on Earth would be a poor choice. Keith’s opinion stands staunchly on middle ground. What was the point of liquidation and relocation if you were just going to stress over death somewhere else? Not that he hadn’t entertained the idea of ditching Mickey and the hellhole of westside SD county, but living on a month-to-month basis leaves him with enough change for ramen packs, not a one-way ticket to the Bahamas. It’s best to chug on like he knows how to.

Life could almost be construed as normal, if not a little fatalistic. Mick’s Mart gets the same customers, serves the same overpriced paltry goods. Sure, people buy more alcohol and lavish amenities (they ran out of M&M’s after exactly two days) but the roll was mainly the same.

Until _he_ came in.

Mickey hadn’t even had the decency to stay in the canned goods aisle this time. Keith is just finishing mopping stomach juices when the pair of them burst through the doorway in a whirlwind of thirty-dollar denim and hair gel. Keith peeks at their legs through the metal shelving units.

“I don’t know,” the bigger guy mutters, planting one meaty palm across his stomach. “This doesn’t look like the right kind of place.” He eyes the water-stained ceiling with a reasonable amount of uncertainty, mouth twisting into a crescent Keith likes to automatically attribute to bitter older women.

“It’s chill,” the other, skinnier guy dismisses, arms trailing and tapping over every exposed object. Keith stills behind the cleaning display and waits, watching those long legs move slowly in his direction. “Anybody home?”

He’s already dealt with a drunkard who refused to close the fridges on account of “staying cool” and an old man with teeth black enough to force tears two seconds into a five-minute tirade about millenials. _Is_ Keith available?

He blinks down at the shiny, freshly-bleached spot on the floor. He’s gonna have to be.

Skinny Man spots him first, unfortunately. He rounds the corner so fast that neither of them have the chance to collect themselves; Keith’s head whips up and he can _feel_ his face going slack, eyelids fluttering under his messy hair because oh God Almighty were those a _pair of legs._

Keith has never been a fan of tight, bleached denim, but he supposes he can make an exception just this once.

“Um,” Leggy Dude stammers. Long, delicate fingers slide up to tug at brown curls, and his mouth curves up lopsidedly in what Keith will eventually learn is rare bashfulness. “Do.. do you sell any seaweed?”

They blink at each other.

“..Seaweed?” Keith raises an eyebrow and purses his lips, letting his fingers clench into his thighs to hide how they twitch oddly. “I think you’re a little too far from the beach for that.”  
  
“Uh, no.” Big Guy cuts in. Keith should be embarrassed for barely noticing the other guy’s presence but _hey_ , he’s got a good reason for once, okay? As it is, the bigger man almost seems reluctant to be there; he sidesteps the shiny spot on the floor like it might be rancid (which, okay that’s understandable) and helps Keith to his feet with a watery smile.

(Somewhere in the back of his brain, a voice that sounds irritatingly like Acxa’s snipes at him for being numb to everyone’s presence unless it’s convenient. He does his best to squash it down.)

“It’s just, um.” Skinny Man appears to slowly recover, based on the jut of one hip and the dive of those slender, brown hands into his belt loops. Keith tries not to follow the movement and fears he failed a second too late but nobody calls him out. “They’re really salty, you know? The crunchy ones? And I couldn’t help myself because I spent all morning making a dugout in the backyard _at_ _Pidge’s insistence_ for their studying, or whatever. And when you sweat, you know what your body is missing?”

“Water?” Keith supplied.

“ _Salt._ ” Toothpick Leg frowns, immaculate brows drawing together. “And electrolytes. How was _I_ supposed to know the bag was off limits?”

“It had their name on it,” Big Man cuts in. “And it was on their shelf in the fridge. In the very back, behind all the takeout boxes.”  
  
“Details,” he sniffs, waving one hand imperiously. “Tiny, tiny details.”

Keith rocks back on his feet, letting his gaze slip from the beautiful man’s face to the sharp point of his blemish-free chin. “So.. what do you want me to do about it?”

“The seaweed,” Big Guy reminds helpfully. “Do you sell any? Comes in a small, dark green baggie? Looks like weird jerky?”

At least four things similar to such a description cross Keith’s mind but none of them are for sale. All of them have come up in Mick’s stomach juices at least once. “No, don’t think so. Have you tried the market down the street?”

“Not yet,” Slender Man sighs, shoulders sagging. “We just wanted to try here first.” He looks dejected enough for Keith to almost offer him a stick of gum. And then Keith remembers he shouldn’t offer peacemaking gum to customers when the gum is something he technically stole behind the counter.

“Sorry,” he mutters instead, turning his back on them to collect the mop and bucket. Mickey is gonna kill him when he looks at the camera feeds and finds him hiding instead of selling. Too bad Amsterdam Andy already came by for his weekly bottle. “You’ll have to look somewhere else.”

“Too bad.” Beautiful Latino (because that’s what he is, Keith realizes) flashes a megawatt smile and a wave, eyes trailing over the sad rumple of Keith’s unwashed shirt for something. “Well, thanks anyway. See you around.”

They leave before Nicki can even finish her last verse. Keith sweats behind the counter and taps shaking hands until the wave of jitters pass four songs later. He doesn’t expect to see them ever again.

+

 

**_Acxa: When you have time, give me a call. Think you should hear about this._ **

**_(Read 8:37PM)_ **

 

+

 

Keith has long learned not to expect any divine intervention. He doesn’t believe in an afterlife, or spirits beyond the void. He avoids every white-bloused woman sitting outside grocery stores, and never answers the door on Sundays. It’s almost subconscious at this point.

Why then, does it feel like the universe is playing tricks on him?

“This isn’t real,” he spits, feeling the hairs rise on the backs of his arms. The boy in his arms smiles like a cat who got the cream, all white teeth and soft, brown dimples. “You aren’t real.”

“Aren’t I?” He laughs low and husky, warm honey dripping straight from the comb. “Aren’t _you_?”

Keith takes a step back and squints at all 5 feet 10 inches of that glorious body, stretched smooth and limber, painted in bronze tones against the smoggy sunset. Denim cutoffs, faded blue crop top, cords and braided bracelets looping thin, elegant wrists — yeah, _no,_ there’s no way Keith would ever get a guy like this into his house. Onto his balcony. Wherever.

“I’m dreaming,” he confirms, pressing his back into the sliding glass. The beautiful stranger beams even brighter at the admission, one hip popping out, toe nudging at Keith’s calf playfully. He traps his tongue between teeth and it’s all Keith can look at. But it’s okay to stare, right? If he’s dreaming then it must be okay to stare.

“You think too much,” the boy observes, dragging his tongue back to chew on one lip. His eyes are hooded, neck tilted back to expose the smooth, unblemished skin there. “I can practically hear you thinking all the way over here.” To Keith’s horror he has no qualms on launching himself forward to breathe the same air. He smells spicy sweet, like sugar and cinnamon.

They waver briefly —  hands hovering over wrists, lips ghosting against skin, watching, _waiting._

“Just relax, okay?”

Keith nods and sucks in a hasty breath. “..Okay.”

But rather that smush their mouths together in a frenzy (and isn’t that what should be happening? Keith is convinced this is nothing more than some play on a wet dream) the boy takes his time. Lips brush his cheekbones, a nose slides along his jaw. Goosebumps rise even though the air between them is muggy enough to start a greenhouse — he feels how _warm_ the man’s palms are, sliding down his front, over his ribs, thumbing at his hip bones through his shirt. Everything about him is warm.

Past a muss of humid-curled brown hair, the reflections of the sunset set every window on fire. Black shadows split golden hues like spilled ink, ripping apart the angular familiarity of the town he’s grown to call something like “home.”

Keith wonders, drifting somewhere far above their bodies, if this is what the apocalypse will really be like. He hopes so.

But in a real apocalypse the sun never sets. The shadows don’t lengthen, and the sky doesn’t turn purple and then black. The street lights don’t flicker on, halogen yellow baby suns burning through the marine layer.

The spots where his mouth parts against Keith’s skin turn cold. He’s gone, gone somewhere Keith can’t see just yet, but he’ll be back.

Somehow, Keith has the sinking feeling this is only the beginning.

+

Mickey’s hid the TV remote again.

Most of the time there isn’t a problem. Keith may hate the news, but even he isn’t a stranger to channels with music videos or all-day weather reports. That’s all fine and dandy.

What _isn’t_ dandy is leaving VH1 on the pop station and then hiding the single remote to change the channel. Keith doesn’t know who dresses Nicki Minaj, but if he has to see her green hair and pink lipstick combo one more time he’s going to go nuts. What the fuck is a starship anyway?

He glances up from across the store and seethes at that hellbox. On screen the tenth rendition of _Call Me Maybe_ is just starting up, Mr. Cream Cheese tearing his shirt off to mow the lawn. His muscles ripple oddly like gills and Carly swoons.

“Fuck your whole family,” Keith hisses, slamming his kneecap into a crate of Bud Light. “Fuck you, fuck this stupid TV, fuck _VH1 for playing Carly Rae Jepsen all day—_ ”

“What’s wrong with Carly Rae?”

It’s _him._ Smooth and slender, squeezed into the tightest pair of skinny jeans Keith has ever seen on a man who isn’t himself. He tugs on the collar of his white tee and gives a gentle half-smile, one dimple popping and shooting straight through Keith’s right aorta. _Yikes._

“Oh.” He tears his gaze away to stare at a mark on his sneaker. “It’s you.”  
  
“What, you _aren’t_ happy to see me?” Beautiful Boy has the audacity to pout (don’t stare at his mouth, _don’t stare—)_ and flutter his eyelashes like a schoolgirl. “And here I came, walking over just to see if you were here.” He casts a glance down at the crate of old piss beer and around the mini-mart. There are no other customers to break the silence, nothing but Carly Rae trilling along and the occasional rattle of a car outside. Just Keith and a whole lotta dusty boxes. “And.. I guess I found you?”

“Where else would I be?” The idea that Keith could have a life beyond the vomit-splattered tiles of Mick’s Mart and the white cage of his flat is laughable; he can’t even remember the last time he truly enjoyed a day at work, much less a day outside. Life is a laundry cycle, whirring around and around, but there isn’t enough detergent to get the clothes inside clean.

“I don’t know,” the man admits. He toes a crack in the linoleum and shrugs his shoulders. “Wherever you go when you aren’t working?”

Keith leaves the Bud Light and wanders towards his usual mantle. Being behind the candy shelving resembles death by two-ton weight — there are furrows in the floor from where his feet have stood for years, effectively etching his own imprint into this godforsaken place. His own personalized gravestone, if you will. But it’s what he knows best.

Wherever he goes when he isn’t working. Does such a place exist? He goes through the mental checklist of his weekly escapades: buying groceries, getting the mail, fumbling through awkward conversations with the on-site property manager. Taco night.

“Primo’s,” he says suddenly. Skinny Sugar raises one perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “You know. The taqueria? On Ditmar?”

“Yeah, I know it.” His lips quirk up smugly, one hand running through his hair. _Preening._ “My family owns it, after all.”

“Your family owns _Primo’s_?” Keith runs through his brain for all the cashiers and cooks he’s spoken with in his five years making his taco runs. He can’t remember anybody’s face except Pappy himself. “I don’t.. remember seeing you at all.”

 _(Your fault_ , Acxa snipes again. _You won’t look anybody in the eye, how the hell do you expect to remember them?)_

Beautiful Boy isn’t even fazed. “No, I don’t think you would.” He purses his lips into a pout. “Tio always has me in the kitchen with my cousins. Says I talk too much at the register for fast business.”

“Really? I can’t see it.”

“You think? Because I sometimes I worry that maybe I do, and then—” He frowns. “Wait. Was that a joke? You were joking, weren’t you?”

“Is it that hard to tell?” He stoutly ignores the Acxa whispers (how does she manage to get a word in edgewise anyway, being eighty miles away? Is that even fair?) and pushes his mouth into a tentative smile. _See? I’m joking._ “And here I thought I was being funny.”

“I don’t know about _funny_ , but whatever floats your boat.” Lance’s eyes lower to the candy shelving, eyes flickering over the empty Hershey’s boxes. First to go once they were out of M &M’s. Apocalypse does make for good smores, what with hellfire and all.  
“So.. Are you going to buy anything?”

“Trying to kick me out?” White teeth flash, Colgate commercial bright. Do they still sell white strips during the apocalypse? Keith had never thought to look. Maybe he should.

 _He smiles just like he did in my dreams,_ half of his brain panics. _Fucking hell._

“Not exactly. Just..” He runs one hand through his hair and lets his eyes wander everywhere around the room but the man’s face. “If I don’t sell anything, Mickey is going to have my ass. He already thinks I’m not pulling enough weight around here. Buy something, would you?”

“If it’ll get me on your good side, then sure.” The man tucks one stray hair behind his ear and bends over, one hand supporting his weight on a strong, supple thigh. Keith does his best not to stare and fails utterly. “How much is a pack of Altoids?”

“Um.. three fifty.”

“Alright. I’ll have one of these, then. And..” Blue eyes trail from the counter up to Keith’s face, lingering over his mouth. He blinks, catching Keith’s eye, and smiles sweetly, hand flying out to snag something out of Keith’s peripheral. “One of these, please.”

It’s one of the lighters they keep on a counter rack — cheaply-made and overpriced, most distinct for the big-busted naked woman posing on a beach that makes up the wrap-around image. Keith was always careful to put the price sticker over her rack. Last-minute modesty, if you will.

“Will that be all?” He bites out, pushing down the smile that pinches at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah.” The man smiles. “For today, anyway.”  
  
He leaves in a cloud of spicy cologne. Keith’s eyes kinda burn but it’s a small price to pay. He feels tingly for the rest of his ten-hour shift, hands back to shaking again.

+

 

**_Acxa: Really, call me. We need to talk._ **

**_(Read 11:45PM)_ **

 

+

 

“Why do you keep following me?” He snaps, turning around to glare. From where the sun nestles right above the horizon, orange light bounces off of the man’s shiny hair and glittery stud piercings like he’s part of a model shoot.

Never mind that there hasn’t been a real beach in five years due to erosion. Keith isn’t a fool; he’s learning the signs, noticing the little things that make this special. The world blurs at the edges and glows too bright in the middle — an old photo dipped in water, ink running in smudges and pooling over everything. He ignores the hovering prisms in his peripherals and focuses on that smooth, tapered face.

“I’m not following you. _You’re_ following _me._ ” The man lifts his chin and points his nose in the air. The wind carries nightly brine and the promise of morning condensation; Keith can taste salt when he licks his lips and breathes through his mouth. He’s drowning in ocean air.

“Says who?”

“Says _me._ Look. That’s my sandcastle.” Long, tapered fingers point down the beach to a sinking lump of sand. Two bucket towers stand within a moat that younger Keith would have admired the craft of, a line of seaweed decorating the inside space in swirling greenery. The moat fills and drains with the oncoming tide — cold water that suddenly licks at Keith’s bony ankles, soaking the hems of his jeans and makes them scratch against his skin. “Unless you make castles just like mine?”

“I’ve never made a sandcastle,” Keith admits, ducking to roll up his jeans to hide whatever expression flits across the man’s face. “Never had the opportunity.” He straightens and shrugs, squinting out at the sunset. “It’s whatever.”

“Really?” The man is suddenly _there_ , bumping Keith’s hip with his own. The gentle curve of his smile mirrors the tiny blue shovel in his hand. “Help me finish this one then, if you’re gonna stay here.”

They sit with their knees barely touching: him, fully dressed in black skinnies and cotton, his companion, properly dressed in a rashguard and boardshorts. They build momentary cities, gardens, animals. Keith learns that the man likes to draw dolphins the most; he’s good at the fluidity of their shape, always punctuating elongated bills with a smile that looks a lot like his own.

The sand is just damp enough to pack together, soft enough to scoop up and shape into spiraling cones like ice-cream and domes like turtle shells. Every figure melts with the tide but Keith finds he doesn’t mind. Make a tower, it washes away. Pat together a house, it slides into the sea. Every wave is the opportunity to try again. Over, and over, and over.

It’s only when Keith marks his piece de resistance — a big, beautiful cake with rosettes and three layers — that the man finally speaks again. He sits back and watches the dessert collapse into nothing, head cocked to one side.

“What does _K_ stand for?”

Keith pauses in his digging, flicking wet sand from the shovel’s bill. “Keith.”

The man nods and goes back to digging as deep a hole as he can before the next wave. “I’m Lance.”

The tide’s force startles them when it hits, knocking Keith flat onto his back and blinding him as it crushes him into the sand. His ears fill with noise, an awful shuddering and fizzing that roars louder that his companion’s fading, surprised cries.

Heavy brine pours down his throat until his insides condense with murky saltwater — a bathtub with no drain, filling higher and higher as black waves rise to rush and swallow living flesh. Sea spills from chapped lips and bloodshot eyes; arms pop off and wash away with the tide, draining the hollow cavity where the heart once beat. And then, when the rushing, wet sand has buried all trace of them, the ocean swells and consumes the sun, leaving nothing but darkness.

+

The first part of Keith’s life is a series of photographs long buried: blank wooden walls, a man’s figure pacing frantically in front of a telephone; shadows passing over an old carpet while Keith eats his soggy Cheerios and waits for the school bus to come. The motions of preschool fade into the motions of middle school, the shadows always changing when he forgets to keep looking.

And then _she_ took him in.

Even after a decade of distance, old Mama Maggie’s shadows still stick to his skin. Sometimes he gets postcards from the bay, texts telling him to turn on the news and avoid supermarket melon due to another salmonella outbreak. Calls are saved for _real_ emergencies, things like hurricane safety instructions and vitamin C substitutes now that fruit is becoming scarce.

Things like the apocalypse.

Keith doesn’t even need to open his eyes; nobody else calls but Mickey, and he’s got his own awful, suburban mother salsa ringtone. He slaps out one arm and wriggles like an octopus, feeling through the rumpled mess of his abandoned pants and socks and last night’s dinner wrappers for his cell. He smushes the cold metal to his face, tugging down the comforter just enough to slur a greeting.

“Wha’ d’you wan’?”

“Hello to you too. And here I was, thinking maybe I could talk to my sole family after three months of radio silence.. Should I hang up and try again later?”

Keith rubbed sleep crusties away with one fist. “We aren’t technically related.”

“Semantics,” Acxa sighs. “I’ve got some news you’ll want to hear. You just wake up?”

“Depends. What time is it?” He squints at the slivers of gold light gleaming through the blinds. There aren’t any birds shrieking, or the angry rambles of Old Man Arthur from across the way. _Around noon, then._ His body complains in little jolts and creaks when he pushes himself up into cross-legged position, cradling the phone to one ear.

Christ, he’s _starving._ Good thing last night’s pizza box is still out on the table.

“I know you don’t actually watch the news, so I’ll cut to the point.” Acxa clears her throat from the other end. “I’ve been reading some online articles in my spare time and everyone is suspecting the same thing.. It’s fantastical, really. And you _know_ I wouldn’t endorse bullshit for a second.”  
  
Keith swallows a mouthful of chewy crust while wiping grease on the carpet. “What’s this about?” He asks suspiciously, fingers trailing over fibers. “Acxa?”

Static crunches on the other end and Acxa lets out another, higher rush of breath. Keith wonders what she looks like now; it’s been almost nine months since they last saw each other on holiday, when Acxa simultaneously cut her hair into the Bisexual Bob and came out dating her roommate, Ezor.

(Keith wants to know when a name like that went into style, but the truth is that the world has always been obsessed with _future._ A place where all of humanity’s issues have been cured, guilt is nonexistent, and awful names apparently thrive. Too bad only one of those became true.)

“It’s about dreams,” she says. “About seeing people in dreams.”

“So?” Keith stares at the drying crust in his hand, inspects the weird nubbly cornmeal used to prevent burning. It grates away like dust when his fingers brush it, sprinkling the carpet with carbohydrate confetti.

“Soulmates,” Acxa says. “It’s a new phenomenon. Some sort of apocalyptic effect. I don’t quite understand the mechanics myself, but there’s tons on the web if you look for it. I really think you should, Keith. It’s a good read, and—”  
  
“Hold on.” His hand is suddenly empty. When did he drop the crust? He blinks, blinks harder, but his eyes are burning. “What do you mean, soulmates?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. Really, you should look for yourself.” Acxa’s voice bursts into surround speaker as he jerks the phone away and opens Google. Results pour in an oncoming wave. “The whole world is going crazy over it.”

Keith’s thumbs twitch erratically as he flies through an unfamiliar forum filled with random descriptions of people, places, things. _Looking for a Sarina, short girl with black straight hair and lots of freckles — we danced on a rooftop in Paris. Do you know what macarons I like?_ Or, _If you’re Alec and you met Carter under a double rainbow, contact this user. We have a lot to catch up on._ One message was a single line: _Email me back, Seph._

“How do they know it’s real?” His eyes ache, blue light burning his already-fucked retinas as he pores over hundreds of dream descriptions. There are mountaintops and elaborate forests, specific colors and phrases thrown out in desperation. Some dreams even involve beaches. Keith can’t help but slow down to read those. None of them match his own.

 _Soulmates._ The last utopic shred humanity could ask for, laid in its lap like a gift from God.

Too bad Keith’s never been a believer.

“It has to be real,” Acxa says. “Because Ezor and I have been sharing the same dreams for weeks now. Half of the couples in this zip have been saying the same thing. We all talk on the Facebook neighborhood watch page.”

Keith squeezes out a laugh, pressing one fist against his stomach. “Of course you do. I hope you know you’re becoming the standard suburban couple you always hated.”

“Can it,” Acxa retorts. “You just wait. You’ll start getting dreams of your own, and then who will you text?” She pauses. “We both know it’ll be me. Who else would you tell, Mickey?”

“You don’t know. Maybe Mickey is my soulmate.” Keith crams pizza back in on reflex; he can feel his brain separating from the conversation, body sliding into autopilot to protect his sanity. Fuck, when will his hands stop _shaking?_

(The pizza, incredibly enough, still tastes good after a twelve-hour drying sesh and a sudden carpet kiss. And really, what’s a little lint fuzz in the scheme of apocalypse and false destiny?)

“Ha. Please don’t joke about that ever again,” Acxa replies pleasantly. Somewhere on the other end of the line Keith can hear a higher voice chiming in, muffled by distance. “Oh— Ezor just finished making breakfast. I’ll text you later, alright?”

“Sure.” _Click._

The silence left behind expands to fill every corner of the room. He stares, transfixed, as dust motes swirl in place through sunbeams and the lone tree outside his balcony rocks back and forth, back and forth.

 _Everything’s gone fucking nuts,_ his aunt used to say _._ She would chainsmoke and watch the news from her armchair, rocking and shaking her head. _Lord, everything’s gone to shit. How can it get worse than this?_

If old Mama Maggie isn’t turning over in her grave right now then Keith is a fucking block of salami. He finishes off the box of pizza with a single-minded fervor, swallowing slice after slice dry. It doesn’t do anything to fill the huge, expanding chasm in his gut, but it does give him a stomachache.

 _You always do this,_ Acxa sighs while he vomits in the toilet. _At least eat cheese-free pizza, wouldn’t you? You know you’re lactose intolerant._

“Fuck you,” he hisses, spitting acid into the bowl. If Acxa — last bastion of reason, fountain of critical thinking second only to Keith himself — isn’t going to be rational, then the only person left to rely on is himself.

It’s fitting, in a sick kinda way. He came into this world alone and now he’ll go out just the same.

When he’s done emptying his guts he turns on the shower, flinging his phone somewhere into a week’s worth of clothing. If he’s lucky the whole soulmate catastrophe will get swallowed up by old socks too.

+

The weekly walk to Primo’s is less like a stroll and more like a painstaking pilgrimage. Keith makes the half-mile trek through sidewalk rubble and overgrown lot weeds, past homeless people who’ve settled in the last bastion before the unforgiving sea. The gutter is choked with trash that will never make it down the drain — snacks for rats and bedraggled seagulls.

Today’s sunny skies have brought out a haze thick enough to cast everything in amber; normally bent and rusted into a metal graveyard, the local trailer park looks almost depravedly majestic, like trash that’s been spray-painted gold.

(Keith is sure there’s a Fall Out Boy lyric in there somewhere.)

A cluster of skateboarders fill the abandoned DIY car wash with clattering and rumbling echoes; from across the street he’s got a front-row view of one guy whipping out an eighth like a pack of Sour Patch. The others hoot and holler, swirling inward in an feverish whirlpool. Another guy tries to swipe the baggie but comeuppance is swift — an escalation in yells that evolve to mix with screaming as they tear him down and begin to kick the shit out of him.

The nearby train track hazards light up and fill the air with incessant clanging, drowning out every other noise as a familiar air horn blares arrival.

He inclines his head away and makes sure to stay focused on the sidewalk. However the argument resolves itself, he doesn’t want to know.

Primo’s wavers on one of the oldest foundations in the seaside area, white paint and plaster peeling back like a sunburn to reveal brick underneath. The gated parking lot thrums with the noise of the whole neighborhood: Mothers cling to children’s shoulders, fathers bellow orders at the busted pick-up window, loners hedge the fence and chainsmoke, ashes mixing with gravel under their feet. Keith takes up his place in line and nods a greeting to the others. They may never speak to one another, but _everybody_ shows up for Tuesday tacos. It’s a Seaside-wide ritual.

“Can’t fuckin’ believe the world ends before I get my last taco,” one bearded guy grunts. He sucks on his cigarette furiously, brows furrowed and mouth pinched like he’s gonna bite the damn stick in half. “You ever eat menudo Sam? It fuckin’ sucks. Fuck that shit.”

“I dunno,” Sam replies mildly. He leans against the rusted fence and stares up at the sky, eyelids heavy and mouth slack. Keith wants whatever _he’s_ got. “Maria’s menudo kinda reminds me of home.”  
  
“You’re from Paloma.”  
  
“So? What’s that got to do with anything?”

Bearded Man scowls and stamps out his butt under one Teva sandal. “Nothin’ I guess. Just wish I could have a good fuckin’ last meal is all. None of this, this _soup_ bullshit.”

“What’s this I'm hearing about soup hate?”

Lance parts the crowd of customers like Moses, beaming bright and sweaty in the smallest pair of daisy-dukes Keith has ever seen on _anybody. Are those even work-safe?_ He saunters right past Keith and hands the tied bag to the bearded man. “For the menudo naysayer: two chicken, two carne, and four pescado tacos?”

Sam’s eyes lower to ogle the curve of Lance’s butt, bulging like a fly’s after they’ve died on one of Keith’s window sills. His mouth, already slack, pops open wide enough to cram half his order in. “Thanks, man,” he mutters after way too long. “Uh.. Yeah.”

“No problem,” Lance simpers and dear lord is that a fucking dimple? _It is._ Keith is a very dead man. “And be sure to try our menudo next week — we’re having a special for long-time customers.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Two bowls for the price of one.”

“We’ll be sure to check it out,” Bearded Man rumbles. He licks his lips nervously, fingers tensing around the plastic bag. “Um. What was your name again?”

“Rickey,” Lance replies smoothly. “Be on your way now boys.” He shoos them into the fray, fingers hovering over Sam’s sweaty tank without actually touching it. “Have a nice evening!”

Only when the thrum of bodies swallows them entirely does he finally turn to Keith. The light dyes his hair and eyelashes golden as it washes over his skin, warming him from the inside out. Even with just a grubby, stained wife beater he glows like a polished stone. It's enough to make Keith nauseous and sweaty.

He clears his throat. “Lance. Hey.” Lance raises an eyebrow.

“Hey yourself. Why so surprised? Did you think I was kidding about working here?”

“I didn't think about it at all,” Keith admits. “Forgot, I guess.”

“Of course you did,” Lance sighs. He tucks one stray curl behind his ear. “So.. come for tacos?” The lopsided smile he flashes sends a weird flutter straight to Keith’s gut. “Or are you just passing through?”

“Bit of both. Tuesdays are my day off, so..” He kicks a stray chunk of gravel and shrugs. “I’ve got time to do whatever.”

“Cool.” Is it just Keith being paranoid, or is this guy giving him a _look_? He can’t miss the way the other boy’s eyes scrape over him, pausing thoughtfully at the frayed hem of his shirt or the torn holes in the thighs of his jeans. Keith can feel his hair sticking to his sweaty neck. He wills his pores to slow down.

“You know..” Blue eyes flash back up to his face. “If you wait around a couple minutes, I can take my lunch break. Whaddya say?”

“Your—” He blinks. “I mean, I don’t have anything better to do, but—”

“I’ll see you in fifteen, okay?” Another Colgate commercial smile and he’s gone, letting the mass of bodies push him back towards the taqueria kitchens. Keith stands dumbly for a long moment.

“..Okay?”

 _I barely even know you_ , he thinks desperately, following the man down a side-street twenty minutes later. _What am I doing here?_ Lance strides ahead with a bag of steaming tacos in each fist, practically skipping down the sidewalk. In the late afternoon haze the whole world gleams in sepia tones, glare bouncing off of rusted mailboxes and empty, dark windows. “Where are we going?” He asks, speeding up his pace to match Lance’s.

“An old hangout of mine.” The man swings around and walks backwards as if the sidewalk isn’t a minefield of bad construction and mini fault-lines. “It’s a great spot to eat lunch, you know? One of _those_ spots.”  
Keith has no idea what context _those_ exists in, but he nods anyway. “Alright. Cool.”

At the end of the street is a heavy gate and a rusted sign precariously dangling from one zip-tie. _Morgan Street Pool: Permanently Closed. No Trespassing._ The asphalt runs forward several meters more before suddenly tapering off — a street leading nowhere.

“Mudslide,” Lance says shortly. “They kinda left it open for a while but..” He shrugs. “Too many opportunities to fuck up, you know?” Keith’s gaze slides to the left of the drop-off, where a small garden of white, hand-painted crosses sprout from the dirt. “Anyway, most of the park is still intact, even if the pool doesn’t have any water. Here, give me a boost.”

Surely Lance isn’t trying to kill him. It’s too much effort to charm somebody over several weeks and then offer them free tacos at a park just to push them to their death, right? Right? Or is Keith just lazy about things like this?

(He tries his best to focus on this internal battle instead of the perky ass hovering right over his face. For what it’s worth, dying this way wouldn’t be _so_ bad. Lance’s shorts leave very little to the imagination and even less brain cells rattling around in Keith’s skull.)

They shuffle around the side of the building and squeeze through a second fence and then—

“Oh.” He stops short. “So this is..”

A certain emotion hovers around spaces such as this, areas where time stopped long enough ago that they seem brighter, more put-together than the rest of the landscape. Keith recognizes the playground structure from his hometown’s public park: bright orange slides, two swings, and a jungle gym so blue it puts the sky to shame. The sandpit is still mostly full despite one side sagging open, weeds bursting forth at the corners. Traces of mudslides exist here too, in the hanging, half-washed fence and the way the earth crumbles freely, once-smooth lawn frayed at edges like an old blanket.

Still, with all of its imperfections, it’s enough. A tiny piece of the past preserved.

“My primos used to take me here when I was a kid,” Lance sighs, stepping forward. He toes off his shoes and socks and wiggles bare, brown feet into the grass. This alone is a special luxury; the beach and open parks have long been defiled with shit and broken glass, enough debris to keep sandals on permanently. “We would swim at the pool and then dry off out here. I always complained about burning my ass on the swings.” His lips curve up fondly at the memory.

Keith sits down slowly in the grass. It may not be green — nothing is now unless it's astroturf — but the blades smell rich and earthy the way fresh manure or rainfall used to. He ignores how it itches through his jeans and gestures for Lance to sit next to him.

Few things in life measure up to a solid taco lunch, Keith knows. Stargazing as a kid is up there. Sleeping, sure. But lying there on the grass as his body digests, staring at the murky clouds with his pinky barely brushing Lance’s, sharing soft comments and occasional silence — _that_ flies immediately up the list, snuggling just above Halloween candy.

(No doubt he’s gonna suffer from major heartburn later but at this point, he could fucking care less.)

“I used to love swimming,” Lance murmurs, trailing one hand over the grass. “I would bug anybody who would take me — primos, abuelos, my older hermanos. We would load up the wagon with towels and snacks and walk down the hill to the beach. And then, when the water got too acidic, the pool.” He chuckles softly. “I would swim until I had wrinkly _everything._ I was like a little brown raisin.”

“That sounds nice,” Keith breathes. He can’t remember the last time he spent more than a shower’s worth of time in water, much less enough to swim. “Big family, then?”

“You have no idea. Everybody working at that taqueria is a relative of mine.” He tilts his head back to squint at the clouds. “They’re a blessing, honestly. In times like these, I feel blessed to have them.”

Keith squirms against sharp blades that prickle at his neck. “Hm.”

“What about you?” He nudges Keith playfully. “Got your own taqueria’s worth of familia too?”

Wind rustles over the bluff, buffeting stray hairs and creaking swing chainlinks. “Not quite,” he mutters, twitching away the dark locks that tickle at his eyelashes. “I’m the only one around here.”  
“Crazy we’ve never met before even though you live so close.” Lance props himself up on one side and flashes a lopsided grin. “It’s like destiny or some shit.”

Keith runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes traces of his earlier bitterness intermingled with pico de gallo. “Yeah. Something like that.”

+

Memory works in strange ways. Sometimes he can go whole months without a single spare thought, and other times he lies awake at night and wonders what _she_ would do. All it takes is little sparks —  cheap Mexican cleaners, the stench of Camel cigarettes. Keith is eating lunch at Subway when he catches a whiff of dollar-store air freshener and immediately is thrown back to sitting in her bedroom, watching her spritz everything after a good smoke.

“That stuff smells like shit,” he would say, screwing his eyes up tight. “How can you see through it all?”

“That’s the trick.” He can still hear her hacking laugh, punctuated with wet coughs. “I’m already going blind. This house already smells like shit. What’s a little more?”

The words were always something of a curse. What’s one more bottle from the case, one more cigarette from the pack? What’s one more encounter on top of all the little ones they’ve already been having?

Keith looks from that familiar figure crossing the street down to his half-eaten sub and feels ill.

“You gonna finish that or what?” Lance wiggles his fingers and swoops for the uneaten chunk, poised for consumption. He looks way too vibrant for a gloomy Friday in his lemon-yellow crop-top and jean ensemble, hair ruffled in the salty breeze.

“You can have it. I’m not hungry anymore.” Keith crumples the wrapper in his fist and forces a smile. “Consider it payback for last time.”

“What, you figured that out?” Lance takes a huge bite and smacks his lips. “Nice ensemble you got here by the way.”

“There wasn’t a receipt in my bag,” Keith replies, raising an eyebrow. Lance stays focused on the sandwich in his hands. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”  
  
“It’s NBD.” His cheeks are bulging with sandwich and if Keith thinks it’s kinda cute, well, who’s gonna know? “They’re only like, a buck anyway. And the world’s ending so who cares?” He chews thoughtfully. “I’m really likin’ this sub. Did you ask for italian dressing _and_ extra pickles?”

“Yeah.” He leans back in his chair and watches Lance polish off the sandwich in record time. He even licks the leftover sauces from his fingers, snatching every stray bit. “So.. why are you here? Day off?”

“Yep.” Lance jerks his head towards the huge cinema across the street. “Went to visit a friend at work. Tio hardly lets me out of the kitchen during the day, so I have to take every chance I get.” He beams brightly, showing off his pearly-whites. “We’re gonna meet for lunch.”  
  
Keith raises an eyebrow. “What, this doesn’t count?”

Lance plants his hands on his hips and pouts. “Can’t you see I’m still a growing boy? I need to get all of my proper food groups in. Your sandwich is like, a snack at best.”  
  
“If you say so.”

He’s honestly puzzled by why Lance keeps trying to approach him. If he were Lance, he’d turn tail the second he saw Keith again and again. They have nothing really in common as far as he can tell, nothing to really talk about.

But if Lance senses the awkward silences oncoming, he ignores them. The man fills the extra space with his own colors  — childhood stories, observations of passing strangers, a funny joke a customer pulled on him at the taqueria. He leans in across Subway’s sidewalk gate and chatters away while the clouds pass and people honk noisily on Main Street, eased as you please.

At a quarter to one the cinema doors swing open and one burly man strides out, tugging on the too-tight collar of his red work polo. He catches sight of Lance immediately (and really, who wouldn’t when the man is dressed like a small sun) and waves both beefy arms. Where does Keith recognize him..?

“There’s Hunk,” Lance chimes in, right on cue. He beckons said guy to cross the street, big toothy smile stretching across his tanned skin. “You haven’t met him properly, right? I’ll introduce you!”

“I mean, you don’t _have_ to..” Really, meeting Lance is enough for him when he’s made a total of three friends in his whole life. He’s spent a whole five years living in anonymity before Lance came along and filled his time with his bright smile and warm chatter; what will one more person on top of that be like? He’s almost afraid to know.

Up close, Hunk looms over the both of them with broad shoulders that stretch against his company-issue tee and a torso wide enough to double Lance’s skinny waist. Keith doesn’t miss how his eyes flicker between the two of them, raising an eyebrow at how Lance’s whole body curves over the fencing to lean closer to Keith’s table. Keith has to look away, a familiar heat rising up his neck.

“Hey,” he says, a curious smile playing at his lips. “Thanks for waiting, man.”  
  
“Anything for you,” Lance coos, fluttering his eyelashes. He straightens and gestures to Keith. “Remember Keith? From Mick’s?”

“Sort of.” Hunk smiles bashfully, one hand scratching his head. “You were there the day we had the seaweed fiasco, right? Lance’s been talking about you.”

“He has?” Keith blinks, nonplussed. “Huh.”

They both marvel in silence as a bright shade of pink blooms across Lance’s cheeks and nose, lips twisting down to mirror clenched fingers in his jean pockets.  
“Right, well,” Hunk pushes on, eyes widening. “Um. Lunch, Lance? I mean,” he gestures towards the Subway behind them, “I would invite you too, but since you’ve eaten..” He trails off and rocks back on his heels. “I mean, you’re invited anyway if you want. I just figured..”  
  
“Oh no, yeah. I have, um, work.” Keith looks between Lance, who’s turned the color of a ripe strawberry, to Hunk, who’s suddenly gleaming at the temples with sweat. Is he missing something here? “I’ll see you guys around though.”

“Sure,” Hunk nods. He smiles weakly. “We’ll catch you later.”

Keith makes it halfway down the sidewalk in the opposite direction before he hears someone shouting behind him. He swings around just in time to crash straight into Lance, sending both of them nearly into the street.

“Christ,” he breathes, holding Lance’s shoulders. The poor guy looks just as pink as he did a minute ago, but now there’s a crumpled napkin in one fist. _Do_ not _think about how good he smells, don’t do it—_ “What’s wrong?”

“My number,” Lance pants. He looks up through dark eyelashes and smiles crookedly, lips trembling. “Here, take it.”

“Um?” Ten digits are scrawled on one side in bleeding ink, almost too spiky to read. He stares at it open-mouthed.

“You’re invited to our movie night next weekend,” Lance pushes on. He rocks back and forth on his heels, fingers playing with the hem of his crop top. “It’ll be Hunk, me, and our other housemate. Pidge.”  
  
“Seaweed girl,” Keith mutters faintly.

“Right. So.. If you want to show up, just text me?” Lance’s curls stick up adorably on top of his head in the afternoon breeze, fluttering around his ears. He tucks one and flashes a wobbly smile. “There’ll be more free food.”

“Yeah, I—” Keith blinks, swallows. Shoves the napkin into his back pocket with wooden fingers. “Yeah. Okay.”

Lance takes one step back, hands hovering out in front of him. He opens his mouth and closes it again, blush renewing. “Cool. See you then.”  
Keith watches him stumble away to join Hunk up the street. The two of them walk and turn the corner towards the civic center. The intersection light changes colors two full times and he stands there, frozen, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“See you,” he mumbles.

+

The park looks different against the setting sun, with its green grass damp from rising humidity, sand cooling between toes underneath the swing set. Keith peeks out between two slits in the slide and marvels at the bright orange orb that threatens to swim with the fish. It’s postcard perfect.

“Room for one more?” The man blocks the bottom of the slide with sinuous limbs, sliding up the chute with a crooked smirk. “You look lonely in here.”  
  
“Do I?” The urge to curl away hovers in his sternum but he pushes it down. There is nowhere to hide that he won't be found, and doesn’t he want to be found anyway? _It wouldn’t be so bad_ , he thinks. He wouldn’t mind the company just this once.

When he crawls up the chute to squeeze next to him, their bodies touch from hip to calf and shoulder to elbow. Keith swallows against the tightness seizing his throat and peeks up through his lashes. Lance smiles back sweetly.

“What are we hiding from?” He pauses, rosebud lips parting, and Keith can’t help but ogle at how plush and plump they look. “Is it scary?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, tearing his gaze away. Outside, the waves crash and against an empty shore. There are no others on the beach, nobody else around for miles. He can’t see it, but he knows somehow. “I’ve never tried to look right at it.”

Lance hums sympathetically. “Sounds rough.” He leans back slowly until he can recline, arms crossed behind his head. His shirt rides up just enough to reveal a soft trail of dark hair that makes Keith’s cheeks hot and his whole throat go dry. “We’ll wait it out then.”

There’s something about the sheltered space inside a tunnel slide that makes Keith feel warm from his toes to the tips of his ears. If dreams are a world of ambiguity then slides are their own pocket of certainty; nobody can reach them as long as they stay safe, peeking at the outside world from within.

He lies down beside Lance, turning on his side to get a good look at how the orange light slats across his angled cheekbones and sternum. There are twin suns shining within his eyes, mirrors of the sunset beyond their miniature world, and Keith feels like he could stare and stare until he falls in and has to swim.

 _You’re beautiful_ , he thinks. And then, because it’s a dream and the inhibitions of the living world are nothing but cobwebs, he repeats the words out loud. Lance’s cheeks flush rosebud pink to match his lips, eyes crinkling at the corners as he suppresses a bashful grin.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, bringing up one hand to tuck Keith’s hair behind his ear. “But so are you. Did you know that?” Keith shakes his head slowly, sparking more static. “No, I didn’t think so. But you should.”

They stare at each other for far too long, unblinking and unmoving. The sun drifts slow enough to set in reverse, adding time onto their draining hourglass. Keith takes all the time he has to memorize the cupid’s bow of his lips, the cinnamon sprinkle of freckles that kiss his cheeks and trail across the bridge of his nose. His winged brows are ready to take flight against the honey-caramel nest of waves, and Keith rubs over both with one thumb. In return, Lance closes his eyes and lets Keith marvel the blue veins webbing beneath the skin there too.

“You haven’t tried to kiss me again.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation but Lance’s eyes flutter open all the same, trailing over whatever expression Keith wears.

“No,” he agrees slowly. “I haven’t. Did you want me to?”

Keith sucks in a soft breath. “I’m not sure.”  
  
“Then I won’t. Not until you tell me you want to.” Keith repositions to lay on his side. This close, he can see every little line around his eyes, count the soft hairs on his upper lip.

The buzzing warmth in his toes rises and settles in his stomach, filling him with a sleepy heat that weighs down eyelids and relaxes the tight lines of his shoulders and hands. Keith blinks through his half-closed eyes at Lance, who seems to be on the verge of drifting to sleep in the sun.

“Don’t go just yet,” he mumbles, slurring against one arm. Lance nods, one hand sliding up to tousle Keith’s staticky hair and stay there.  

“I won’t,” he promises. “I’ll stay until you want me to go.”  
  
He blinks once, twice. Lance smiles back, eyes crinkling at the corners and sending a soft ache into the recesses of Keith’s chest.

He closes his eyes a third time and lets himself slip away, trusting Lance to catch him before he can drift away.

+

Marmalade Street runs just past the closed elementary school, its tiny colorful bungalows facing an abandoned soccer field. Keith counts five and then stops at the sixth, where the chipped olive paint matches an old gnarled oak with roots big enough to break up the sidewalk. _Here._

He steps carefully over a deflated kickball and several potted succulents to reach the doorstep. Lance had said it was okay to just walk in, but Keith doesn’t know seaweed girl at all. Wasn’t that kinda like breaking in? Fuck if he knew. He hovers over the sadly flickering doorbell for a moment before knocking instead.

Immediately a muffled commotion of voices and running feet echo from the other side. Keith wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and eyes the doormat. _Welcome Home Matt._

The door snaps open sharply, rusting hinges screaming in protest, to reveal a thoroughly frazzled Hunk and a tiny goblin of a person with huge, circle glasses.

Keith eyes their _I Want To Believe_ tee and matching alien studs carefully. He can feel their eyes scraping over his own choice: a glow-in-the-dark Bigfoot tee that Acxa had mailed for Christmas last year. They make eye contact.

“Come in,” Pidge finally says, stepping aside. “Hunk just made popcorn.”

Compared to the stark walls and bare bones that Keith lives in, Pidge’s home overflows with, well, _home._ The kitchen’s green tiles reflect a skylight, bouncing rays over an old wooden table and counters cluttered with appliances and odd things. The fridge is covered in notes, alphabet magnets, and nonsensical sketches that scatter onto the floor when he bumps past it.

And then they step into the living room.

Drawn shades do little to block out the afternoon light seeping in underneath to warm the carpet. The walls are covered in framed photos and 80’s movies posters. In the middle of the floor is a huge pea-colored couch that sags in the middle, and beside it lies a ripped-up pleather armchair with the footrest extended. The room smells old, must and decaying wood covered with cheap air freshener.

Keith swallows carefully, feet stalling at the edge of the carpet.

“You can sit,” Pidge reminds him. They move past to plop into a bed of pillows in front of a box TV, kicking away an Xbox controller. Hunk follows to perch carefully, arms wrapped lovingly around a steaming orange bowl. “Lance’ll be out in a sec. Said he suddenly had to pee or something.”

He settles for crouching at the edge of their cushiony nest, fingers trailing anxiously over a knit quilt. “What movie are we watching?”

“What, Lance didn’t tell you?” Pidge snags a fistful of popcorn and crams it into their mouth. “ _Godzilla Raids Again_.”

Hunk proffers the bowl to Keith, who takes a handful gratefully. “What, the old black and white film?” He pops a few kernels in his mouth, savoring the flavor of fake butter and salt.

“Got a problem with that?” Pidge leers at him from their beanbag, balancing a pile of popcorn on their stomach.

“No.” He crunches on a few more before continuing quietly. “All we had at my aunt’s were VHS tapes. Spent a lot of my time going through her old movies when I was a kid.” Pidge grunts an approval.

Lance sticks his head into the room. “Hey! Did you start eating the popcorn without me?” He makes a dive for the bowl and nudges Hunk hard enough to send popcorn flying everywhere. “Gimme some, you hogs!”

“Watch it, pig!” Pidge snaps, frantically scooping up more kernels for their hoard. “You’re getting butter all over my cushions. Mom’ll have my head if we leave grease stains.”  
  
“It’s what you deserve,” Lance sniffs, sitting back with a hefty fistful. He catches Keith’s eye and smiles. “At least you got enough, right?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, fist clenching unconsciously around his food. The popcorn crunches in his fist and sprinkles buttery mess into his lap.

The movie opens with two men in a plane, badly lip-synced to English lines. Keith leans back against the couch and finds Lance already there, munching avidly through his lapful of popcorn. When Lance smiles, Keith should be grossed out by the stray kernel lodged between his gums. Really, he should.

He wants to pay attention to the movie but can’t find it in him; the constant warmth stirring and sighing on his right draw his attention away from everything but the fight scenes. In the midst of a tense scene between a frail girl and her beefy pilot boyfriend, Keith can’t help but peek at the others. Pidge and Hunk are both relatively focused, hands moving towards their mouths on autopilot. Lance, on the other hand, is watching _him._

Keith snaps his gaze back to the box TV, staring at the flickering colors at the edges before slowly trailing his gaze back. _He’s still_ looking.

 _What?_ He mouths, scowling in spite of his blush. Lance smiles crookedly and shrugs.

 _Nothing_ , he mouths back. And then, raising his eyebrows, _do you like the movie?_

 _It’s good,_ Keith shrugs. Lance laughs silently at this, eyes crinkling at the corners. He bites his lip to stifle the noise coming out, eyes flicking to Pidge’s still form and back.

 _You’re not watching_ , he accuses playfully. _I can tell._ He clears his throat loudly, swiping the bowl from Hunk’s lap.

“I’m gonna go refill this. Keith, come with me.” Keith follows Lance out without a word, shaking the tingles from his legs. Behind them Pidge mutter to themselves about microwaves being single-use.

Early evening sucks all of the light out of the kitchen, leaving behind soft sage shadows and the salty tang of evening marine layer drifting through an open window. Lance flicks on the stove light — which does very little to cast any light, but adds a nice buttery glow — and starts shuffling through cupboards.

“Do we want another bag of extra butter, or do we want to try kettle corn?” He squints at two boxes on the third shelf. “I’m a cheesy corn fan myself, but Hunk thinks it’s the work of the devil.”

“I mean,” Keith leans back against the table, only slightly worried by the way it groans, “it’s definitely no caramel corn.” He feels his lips quirk at the flash of recognition on Lance’s face — a victory, keeping the conversation moving.

“Oh god, you too?” Lance sighs, ripping open the kettle corn box. “Pidge _lives_ for caramel corn. Once I got one of those popcorn buckets for Christmas. Kept it under my bed, you know?” He pops the bag into the microwave and shakes his head. “They found it in less than ten minutes, _and_ ate half the bag while I was using the bathroom.”  
  
“Sounds rough.” Keith runs his thumb along a thick gash in the table’s surface. “I’ll keep an eye out for them, then.” Lance’s smile fades, brow furrowing.

“You _are_ having a good time, right? You aren’t just pretending to?”

Keith blinks. “Why would I be pretending?”

“I don’t know. Some people are like that.” His fingers trace the microwave buttons. “They’d rather say everything is fine than admit it, you know?”

Keith squirms, nails scratching over a splinter underneath the table’s edge. “Can’t relate.” His hand slips, scraping and lodging the splinter into his finger. _Ouch._

“What’s taking so long?” Pidge shouts from the next room over. “Did you break the microwave again?”

“No!” Lance sighs again, slower, and squares his shoulders. “Come on. Help me pick some snacks from the pantry. Pidge gets cranky if there aren’t any good snacks out.” He turns and slips behind an open door, leaving Keith to pick at his splinter and follow behind.

+

If Keith was the kind of guy to count his days, he would have realised how quickly time slipped through their fingers. Living day-to-day is an agony he tries not to revel in — what does it matter if it’s hump day or church day? The routine is always the same.

Leave it to Acxa to be a day-counter, a week-planner. He wakes up bleary-eyed on September 1st to not one, not two, but _three_ texts in a row. A whopping record for someone who spends most of the year practically on another plane of existence.

 

**_Fall is coming. Please remember to buy yourself allergy meds. (9:13AM)_ **

 

**_When are you coming for dinner? (9:27AM)_ **

 

**_Hope the soulmate search is going well. You deserve it. (9:31AM)_ **

 

Right, the search. Keith presses his lips tight and smushes his phone into the cushions with white knuckles.

He may not believe in soulmates but he does understand the sentiment. Who would want to spend the last year on earth alone? People, for all of their ostracizing and segregating of each other, are still creatures of social neediness. Even Keith with all of his hangups about rooms with more than two people in them gets it.

But the dream isn’t for him. He _knows_ it isn’t, because who would want to spend their last miserable hours with a greasy corner-store worker? Someone who spends their free time staring at the sky and watching the same History channel documentaries every weekend? He doesn’t have anything going for him. Acxa always liked to pretend they were the same caliber but it just wasn’t ever going to happen.

Keith was fine with it. He’d accepted it years ago. It was Acxa who wouldn’t let him go, who always was trying to rope him into monkey suits and dating sites, into community college classes and dinners with her posh LA posse.

God, dinner with Acxa was always an event. He would clean himself up and make the drive two hours north through raging traffic only to have Acxa snipe over his long hair and employer. _Get a better job. Get yourself a nice boyfriend. Get a haircut._ Keith would sit through the shame, eat Ezor’s weird vegan food, sit on their plush couch bought with Acxa’s accounting paychecks, all before driving back home again.

If it wasn’t for the hulking ghost of Mama Maggie threatening to break his arm, Keith would have given up on niceties long ago. Unlucky for him, the old witch had seen her death coming and made sure her two “babies” would take care of eachother once she was gone. She’d even gone so far as to write it into her will.

He decides to leave the texts on read and turns on some music to go with his morning eggs. The day already looks socked in with clouds, barely misting against his kitchen window. Anybody complaining about June gloom had nothing on him; in Seaside, nearly every day was grey.

His Wednesday shift doesn’t start until noon, leaving him just enough time to pull himself together for a grocery trip. If he walks fast enough he might even be able to stop at CVS for shampoo (because, incredibly enough, body wash doesn’t work the same on hair. A disappointing discovery).

Fresh & Easy may be a little emptier but it still encapsules the charm of chain grocery — which is to say Keith is fucking freezing by the time he passes the cash registers, and his eyeballs itch from the stale, recycled air.

He nudges his squeaky cart through half-empty aisles and wracks his brain for what he needs. For someone who spends a lot of time eating freezer food he has no idea what’s missing from the fridge.

“Can I help you find something?” A lanky man pops up on his right, mop of brown hair astoundingly mussed for bagging groceries. He kinda looks like someone — but who?

“No,” Keith replies bluntly. The grocer’s eyes widen. “I mean, if you want to you can.” He winces. “Got any recommendations?”

“On what, microwave meals?” The grocer stands back and eyes the wall of freezers. “Have you tried the macaroni mash? Or the teriyaki chicken? Those ones are pretty good.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and smiles shyly. “It’s been awhile since I’ve had one, sorry. My boyfriend mostly cooks for me now.”  
  
“Must be nice,” Keith mutters, opening one door to reach for the teriyaki box. “Soulmate, or..?”

“Yeah.” The guy flushes pink up to his ears. “I mean, we’ve already been best friends for _years_ , but I had never thought that he would want—” He swallows, scuffing his shoe. “Yeah. He cooks.”

Keith nods, tossing the box into the cart. He half-expects the guy to move away when he starts moving to the next aisle, but he just follows along. A slow morning, then.

And he can almost immediately see why. Lots of companies have stopped shelling out products what with the last few months breathing down people’s necks. Workers quit to spend time with their families, or move to new locations on a whim. The fish section is almost completely bare (though really, after the spill several years back, what’s new?) and the box cereal aisle is mournfully scarce. Keith has to settle on a box of plain Cheerios of all things. Rest in peace, Captain Crunch.

The grocer follows him all the way around the store like a second shadow, offering tidbits of personal information Keith didn’t ask for. He learns that the guy is named Matt, and that he was going to the local community college before the news. He learns that Matt’s soulmate, Shiro, is beefy and likes to eat healthy shit like kale and protein smoothies. He hears too much about Shiro, actually.

“I knew it was him after he talked about his dreams,” Matt sighs, a dumb goofy smile on his face. He packs Keith’s groceries like they’re an afterthought but Keith can’t bring himself to care. “He would repeat stuff we would say — not outloud, but in our dreams, y’know? — and that’s how I knew. Living your dreams is crazy.” He cocks his head and smiles, scanning a pack of frozen lasagna.

“I’ll bet.” Keith doesn’t mean to sound bitter, but the ugly undertone that creeps into his voice surprises the both of them. Matt turns scarlet.

“Sorry,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. The pieces stick up like a duck’s butt and make him look babyish, rumpled. Keith immediately feels ashamed for the crease in his brow. “I know you’ve probably heard a lot of stories like mine.”

“Not really,” Keith admits. _Because I don’t have any friends._ “I don’t uh, ask? Anyway, I’m glad you’re happy and stuff.” He eyeballs the aisle register frantically. How long does it take to add up a grocery total?

“Yeah.” Matt punches in a few buttons on the register. “Your total is twenty-seven fifty.” Keith scrambles for his wallet, thumbing through old crumpled receipts for the right bills. “Let me know how the lasagna goes, would you?” Keith nods, sliding the money to him.

“Good luck finding your soulmate!” Matt calls cheerfully as he leaves.

“Thanks,” Keith replies. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Matt the truth.

+

Fall is coming. The days are beginning to cool, simmering down the weak fervor of Seaside’s beachy tourism. All the daycampers pack up their mobile homes and chug away; the smattering children left running the streets in their scooters shuffle off to school. Keith watches them walk past his window, bundled with backpacks and new shoes, and wonders what they could possibly be going for. What’s left to learn when the world is ending?

Fall is a hidden blessing for Keith. Less tourists mean less idiots bumbling into the minimart in their floppy hats and sunburns on the hunt for aloe vera. Mickey would call it the tragedy of turning seasons. Keith is just grateful he won’t have to make so much smalltalk about the weather anymore.

The mornings begin to have less fog and more clouds, turning whole days grey and bleak. The gutters clog with dead leaves and other detritus. Keith has to wear a sweatshirt to work.

“You look like cotton candy,” Lance observes. He spends a lot of time at the market for somebody who makes a living delivering tacos — _too_ much really, if Keith is thinking about it. He’s got his own stool next to the counter that he perches on, balancing bony elbows on bonier knees while popping gum or splitting a pack of Skittles. “Cherry flavored cotton candy.”  
  
“You’re just jealous,” Keith sniffs, zipping his jacket higher. In contrast, Lance looks perfectly at ease in his blue long-sleeve and torn white jeans. He doesn’t even put on a scarf to cover his ears. The ending result makes him look a mile long, all soft tones and artfully ruffled brown hair.

“Jealous of you, or your jacket?” Lance smirks, snapping his gum. “It would be hard to stay cold if anything was that close to your skin. You’re like a small oven.”  
“If I’m so oven-y then why can’t I stay warm?” Keith is going to ignore that first quip. The type has become more frequent on top of the stool and in-store loitering — and unlike the other stuff, will _not_ be addressed.

But it’s so hard not to be charmed. When they go out for brunch at the old cafe across the street, Lance catches whipped cream from his hot cocoa on his lip. He looks so silly like that, drowning his pancakes in enough syrup to nearly float them, tongue swiping over the cream — but all Keith can do is stare. He’s been doing a lot of that lately.

He learns lots of little things in between market shifts and visiting every open diner on Main Street. Lance has four sisters and two brothers. Lance likes to put cheese in his eggs. Lance wanted to be an astronaut when he was a kid.

“An astronaut?” He echoes, pausing with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. The idea takes so easily in his mind: Lance, gangly and bright-smiled, posing for that expedition photo they always take in their suits.

“I know it sounds silly, but that’s what I really wanted.” Lance twirls his fork through his omelette, dragging the last bits around his plate. He furrows his brow, poking at one little tomato chunk. “And then I learned we didn’t have any money left for college, and what with the recent news.. Well. It just wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”

Keith stares at him. The idea of launching a body into space should be fantastical and out-of-this-world (quite literally), but why does it feel like the right place to put Lance?

 _He's a star all on his own_ , Keith thinks, watching him scrape at the last bits of egg. Even with a little bit of butter splattered on his cheek, he's too bright to look at for long. He belongs up in the sky with the others who dreamed of leaving the world behind.

"I'm sorry," he says, but it doesn't feel like enough.

"What's there to be sorry for?" Lance's mouth quirks up on one side. "Sometimes that's just how fate works, you know? It's no big deal."  
  
_You're wrong_ , Keith wants to yell. _Fate doesn't mean anything._ But he knows better than to say shit like that, because then wouldn't it just mean Lance didn't try hard enough? Everything about this settles uncomfortably in his gut next to pancakes and bacon. Keith feels like he's choking on a meal he's already finished eating.

"For what it's worth," he says, when they've split the bill and stepped back out onto the street, "I think you would have been a great astronaut. Maybe the best."  
Lance flushes rosy pink, lips tugging up on both sides into something real. "Thanks."

 _Fate._ The word is beginning to drop more and more, littering mouths the way dead leaves clog up rain gutters and doorways. Keith hears it from the grocer, the mailman, even fucking Mickey. They've all got ideas of how things would have been, should have been. And now they're going to accept that it's all thrown away and call it destiny.

If Keith weren't so focused on his own pity party he might've been annoyed. With who he doesn't know, but the feeling is under his skin and refuses to be scratched away. He looks at Lance, trapped in the confines of an old beaten-down taco shop when he should be up in the stars; at Matt, who bags groceries all day when he should be out on sweet vacations with his boyfriend. Suddenly the tiny hole he's contented himself with for months feels more like a trap he can't drag himself out of. _Is it right to be happy with what I've got?_ He isn't sure anymore.

It doesn't help that Acxa never texts him again. He knows she can see he's left her on _Read_ without a reply; they're both aware of his weakness to unresolved tension. Eventually he'll have to say something. It always ends up being _yes._

+

It's a week and a half before he finds himself back on that green porch. Pidge invited him herself this time (how she managed to steal his phone and add her contact info without him realizing, he'll never know) along with the others. They're potting succulents.

"My mother usually is the one who does this," she huffs, smearing dirt on her jeans. "She's on a vacation with our dad in the Swiss mountains and told me to get it done instead."  
  
"Right now?" Keith frowns, peering at the sky. The clouds swirl above like black soup, rippled with the promise of rain. "But it's September."  
  
"Succulents don't have a specific blooming period," Pidge reminds him. "Technically I could do this whenever I wanted. I just didn’t have enough hands to get it done in less than two hours."  
  
She rolls her shoulders and scoops more cactus mix. “Pass me that pot next to your ankle, would you?”

The smell of Hunk’s cooking wafts out to them through the kitchen window: butter, melted chocolate, brown sugar. Keith’s mouth waters on reflex and he has to remind himself to keep it closed, what with Lance flailing his trowel everywhere, getting dirt on Keith’s face and into his collar.

“Look at this guy,” Lance announces, holding up a tiny, nubby plant in a big pot. “He looks like a doggie chew toy.” He spins the pot around in his hands, lips pursed in thought. “Did we really need to make the pot so big for him? He’s so small!”

“Jade succulents grow pretty fast,” Pidge says, snatching the pot from his hands. She tucks the little plant in next to a bunch of similar cases, all lined up down the porch walkway. “He’ll be big enough to fill it out within a year, I think. And then, in a couple more, he’ll bloom in spring.”

 _We won’t even get to see its flowers,_ Keith thinks sourly. Lance doesn’t seem the least bit fazed.

“He’s so nubby. I like him already.” He puts one hand on his chin and rubs, brow furrowed, before his whole face brightens. “I’m calling him Nub Stark.”  
  
“Nub—” Keith scowls to push down the fluttering in his gut. “Why are you naming it?”

“ _Nub Stark_ isn’t an it, he’s a _he,_ ” Lance sniffs, jutting out his chin. “And _he_ doesn’t like you talking about him like that.”  
  
“He doesn’t have ears!” Keith protests. Pidge shakes her head, patting down the soil in one pot.

“I don’t know, Keith. There have been studies on how sound exposure might help plants grow, so I think—”

“Ha! I _told_ you—”  
  
“ _That doesn’t mean he’s got ears Lance—”_

“What’s going on here?”

Two guys are walking up the lawn, plastic bags swinging from their hands. Keith recognizes Matt’s mussed hair and crooked smile almost immediately. Just behind him is a hulking dorito of a guy with short black hair and a jawline sharp enough to cut Keith’s hand off.

“Matt!” Pidge squeals, knocking over two pots in her haste to stand. She throws the trowel into Lance’s lap and runs for it, slamming into Matt’s torso and wrapping her arms around him. “You came.”  
  
“Said I would, didn’t I?” He laughs, dropping one bag to pat her hair. The man behind them smiles warmly, picking up the extra load with ease. “‘Specially with Hunk making cookies. No way we could miss that.”

Keith stares at the way Pidge’s head fits perfectly under Matt’s chin, framing their same mops of brown hair. Her bright eyes and upturned nose mirror his too exactly to be coincidence, and everything clicks all at once. _Siblings._ His eyes snap to the other man. _Then you must be—_

“Shiro,” he says, switching all the bags to one hand to shake Keith’s hand. Keith does his best not to stare at how his bicep bulges bigger than a baby’s head. “Pleased to meet you.”  
  
“Keith.” His scowl cracks, lips twitching at the memory of Matt’s rambling. “I’ve heard.. stuff about you.”  
  
“Stuff?” Shiro raises one perfect eyebrow. “All good I hope.” Keith nods, stepping back to let Lance slap Shiro across the chest. He’s smiling too, all pearly-whites exposed in eagerness.

“Long time no see,” he chirps, eyes scraping over Shiro’s chest. “Still got those long gym hours?”

“It’s good to keep yourself focused,” Shiro admonishes, stepping back to pass bags back to Matt. “Exercise keeps your brain _and_ your body fresh. No slander here, Lance.”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he sighs, eyelashes fluttering as he watches Shiro’s biceps flex. “Just calling what I see.”

They fumble up the walkway — Matt knocks over only two plants in his vortex of swinging bags — and squish single-file into the house. The aroma of baking immediately squeezes Keith’s stomach into growling.

“It smells like a bakery in here,” Lance calls. “How you doin’ Hunk?” The man in questions looks up from where he’s painstakingly spooning batter onto cookie sheets. His face lights up at the sight of the new addition to their crowd.

“Matt! Shiro! Glad you guys could make it.” He nods at the bowl of dough. “I maaay have gone a bit overboard with the recipe.. But now there’s plenty to go around!”

“White macadamia nut,” Lance moans, cramming a chunk of raw dough into his mouth. He dodges Hunk’s flailing mits with a swiftness that belies experience, shuffling out into the livingroom to escape. “Thank God for your food, Hunk.”

They end up forgetting the plants entirely in favor of late lunch in front of the TV. Lance begs Pidge to pull out the N64 until she plugs in Mario Kart for them all to play. Keith finds himself tucked on the couch between Shiro’s hulking mass and Lance, who’s bent forward enough to nearly be in half.

“Let me win just this once!” He bares his teeth as Pidge aims a perfect red shell and knocks him back into second place. “Come on, Pidge. You _always_ win.”

“It’s called living with Matt,” she retorts, swerving perfectly around a hairpin turn. “I don’t _let_ anybody win — it has to be ripped from my cold, dead hands.” Matt splutters beside her but doesn’t disagree, watching the two of them race neck-and-neck through the plaza.

Three minutes later Pidge screeches through the finish line with a whopping five seconds on Lance. She crams a cookie in her mouth and smirks, basking in his exaggerated groans.

Keith sits back and wonders what the group of them look like: mismatched, patched together through the circumstances of _something_ (he won’t call it fate) onto this fraying couch, bowls of food and cookies scattered about into the cracks. How did he get here? Was it one choice, or a string of many?

 _(Don’t think about it too hard,_ Acxa snipes from somewhere in his head. _Then you’ll get all bitter and wish you never even asked._ He doesn’t bother denying it.)

But it’s alright. He doesn’t mind how he’s fallen into this picture because for once — maybe the first time, even — he isn’t on the edge of the photo, ready to be cropped out. He’s not in the background, riding the waves of averageness in a world ready to throw him away. He’s right in the middle, an open tin of macadamia nut cookies warming his lap, Lance pressing warm into his left thigh in a video game-induced fervor.

Keith’s phone buzzes against his thigh and he peels it out, turning on the screen to a new message.

 

**_Let me know your plans for Thanksgiving soon. (6:45PM)_ **

 

He hopes that what he has, fleeting and bright, is enough to fill the widening hole in his stomach.

+

The days of the week are their own form of Hell. Sunday and Monday are something of an anxiety, Tuesday is grueling monotony. And Wednesday. _Fucking hump day._

Keith opens his eyes on this particular hump day and just _knows_ it’s gonna take more than a shot of espresso to move him down the street. He feels like a wind-chapped ass. His eyes stick with gunk, and every hole in his head feels clogged with mucus.

“Fucking shit,” he grumbles, and his voice splinters coming out of his throat.

As per classic Wednesday behavior, Mickey is unreachable. He won’t stumble into the store until a quarter past eight — more than an hour after Keith’s shift starts. Keith ends up having to text the other guy who works the store in weird gap shifts — some rando with an insomnia problems, Keith doesn’t know how Mickey picks up people off the street to work for him — and promise his next Sunday away in exchange for sick leave.

 _Real sick leave comes with a real job_ , Acxa sniffs. Keith mentally shoves her in the ribs to shut the fuck up.

The second he gets a message back ( _you owe me asshat)_ he’s back to light’s out. Hump Day can go fuck itself.

The second time he wakes up, the sun is somewhere above his roof and his house is full of shadows. Keith slithers out of bed long enough to scourge the cupboards of snack food (a stale, near-empty box of Chicken-in-a-Biscuit) and grab a glass of water. Did a truck hit him in his sleep or is it merely coincidence?

From his bed he manages to fumble the remote into turning on CBS’ weather report.

_“Partly cloudy skies for the remainder of this week, with an incoming low pressure indicating rain on Saturday and Sunday—”_

Right when he works? Keith feels the crackers turn over in his gut as his mouth pinches down, puckering sourly. Of course. Did fucking George know about this?

He ends up turning the TV off and reaching for his phone instead. He’s got one message in his inbox, from Lance of all people.

 

**_You okay? Noticed you didn’t come by for lunch yesterday. (1:35PM)_ **

 

Keith stares. Rubs his eyes once. Was he really that much of a regular to be noticeable? There are plenty of customers who go by the taqueria every week.

 _But none of them get to have lunch with Lance_ , part of him thinks smugly. _He noticed_ you.

 

**_Not feeling too great today. Stayed home. (1:55PM)_ **

 

To his surprise, Lance texts back almost immediately. Is his lunch break that long?

 

**_Aww :( You know what you need for a cold? My mami’s caldo! It’s great for sickness. Promise. (1:56PM)_ **

 

**_I don’t want to walk there, though. I’ll just stay home. (1:56PM)_ **

 

**_No you idiot. Ill bring it 2 u. Just gimme your address ok?? (1:57PM)_ **

 

Keith looks up and surveys his apartment. There’s a mound of last week’s laundry piled in front of the sliding glass and dishes from dinner two days ago on the coffee table. A thick layer of dust covers everything that isn’t blanketed in unorganized trash; even his shoes are mussed, smeared with dirt from the last misting that turned the sidewalks grungy.

He sucks in air through his teeth and mentally pinches himself. _Why does it matter? You’ve never card about having people over before._

 _But that’s different,_ he reminds Acxa. _You’re.. you._

Dump replica or not, the idea of Lance coming over to fill the quiet space sounds better than sitting alone, flipping through all the bad channels before the 6 o’clock news. Not to mention Keith only has enough bread right now for one slice of toast.

He sends Lance his address before he can change his own mind. The guy, again, responds lightning quick.

 

**_Great!! C U in a few :-) (2:05PM)_ **

 

+

He hadn’t meant to let Lance stick around. It was clear, based on the name tag stuck to his shirt and the sign taped to his bike, that he wasn’t off duty quite yet. But that didn’t stop Keith from smiling too brightly and stepping aside, hadn’t swayed Lance the slightest from grinning and closing the door behind him.

He shuffles around the room and kicks things to the walls with a sprightliness that surprises even himself, but what else is he gonna do? Lance makes him _nervous._ He has to keep himself occupied before he says something stupid, like _please be my best friend because I don’t really have anyone else and you’re so good that I want to keep you all to myself._

Yeah. He’s just gonna busy himself with this soup.

Lance sets down his plastic bag and surveys the living room quietly from the edge of the coffee table. His eyes sweep over tiny details: a pair of used socks under the table, the calendar nailed next to the fridge. Keith desperately ignores the prickling sweat at his nape and pretends he doesn’t see how Lance stalls on Acxa’s last postcard, lips quirking up at her elaborate cursive of _Dear Shitlord._

“Nice place.” He plops down on the floor next to Keith and pulls out a foil-wrapped torta. “Feels.. kinda familiar, somehow.”  
  
“Funny how that happens.” Keith pulls his soup container out and cracks open the lid. He does his best to avoid Lance’s sudden piercing gaze, focusing hard on the balcony. _Which you two made out on in a dream once,_ his brain supplies helpfully.

(You are not being helpful, he scolds himself. Think of something else.)

(It doesn’t work.)

Lance, to his credit, takes Keith’s sudden silence in strides that would cripple the dark-haired man if their roles were reversed. After practically unhinging his jaw to cram a third of his torta down, he eases into the carpet and talks. And talks, and talks, and talks.

“I’ll never grow tired of mama’s carne,” he groans, tearing another chunk off to eat. He chews with an intensity that appears at utter odds with his smooth, immaculate appearance, jaw working overtime with his brows pushed together, fingers drumming over the coffee table’s surface to an unknown, frenetic beat. “She makes the best meat I’ve ever tasted, no joke.”

Keith blinks. “Your mom?”

“Who else would grill the meat, my prima?” Lance scoffs. “Of course it’s mama. She’s been making it for years, after my abuela’s knees got too bad for it.”  
  
“Your abuela?”

“Sure.” Lance beams, wiping one hand with a napkin. “Now she just makes the tortillas on our low table in the shop and barks at mama on what to do.”

“I see..” Now that Lance mentions it, he _can_ remember an old woman behind the counter. Keith remembers waiting for his first batches of tacos years ago, when she would hobble about and pick at things with old, wrinkled hands. Her eyes were blue as a fresh sky, and startlingly kind. He can never remember speaking to her, though. “She sounds nice.”

Lance barks a laugh. “She means the very best. I love her with all of my heart. All of them, really.”

Keith imagines the whole lot of them crowded around the counter after a long day, smiling and glistening with a day’s sweat. His heart aches.

“You’re lucky,” he murmurs, lowering his lashes. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel very hungry anymore. “To have a big family like that.”  
  
“Yeah.” Lance’s smile blooms sweet like the buds on old Maggie’s boxed petunias, delicate and sweet. “I know.”

When Keith is finally full enough to roll himself back onto his mattress, Lance takes the opportunity to clean up their mess. Keith peeks out from behind his covers and watches his dim shadow flit from kitchen counter to counter. The scratch of someone else’s socks on the tile strikes a sense of warmth that he didn’t know was possible.

When you’ve been walking through an empty desert for years and years, flitting from rock to rock without anyone to take the heat off your back, you learn to live with burns. You don’t need anyone, or at least you think you don’t — after being alone for that long, you have to tell yourself anything to get by.

But now here comes Lance all pearly-whites and bright laughter, bags of hot food and sweet memories he’s willing to pour like water into Keith’s own hands. Who is Keith to say no?

He barely knows Hunk and Pidge but he would like to think the same brightness could spill from their open palms too. After all, _they_ were the ones who opened the door and let him in. Keith has never been inside before, looking from the inside out instead of the other way around.

 _I don’t want to let go of this_ , he realizes with a jolt. Lance pokes his head out of the kitchen and grins, apparently found something worth needling Keith for, but he can’t find it in himself to bring up a scowl. _Please don’t make me let this go._

“I can’t believe you have five-year expired Shrek macaroni in your cupboard,” Lance snickers. He steps out of the kitchen completely and waves the incriminating box around. Shrek and Donkey grin crookedly from the cover, faces warped by years of being beaten around and shoved to the back of the shelf.

“I haven’t gotten around to cleaning,” Keith mumbles, tugging the blankets up to his nose. “So sue me.”  
  
“Are you kidding?” Lance laughs. “This is a _relic_ . Some of the shit in your cupboard should go into a museum.”  
  
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Socks shuffle softly over Keith’s kitchen mat and the fridge opens with a gentle _click._ “Oh my _god_ , please tell me this milk isn’t expired.”  
  
“Cleaning takes _time_ , Lance!” Keith’s voice cracks but he can’t bring himself to care. His face aches where his mouth twists too wide, eyes crinkling tight at the corners. His heart is beating so hard — is his fever trying to break? “If it bugs you so much, then _you_ can deal with it.”  
  
“Don’t mind if I do,” he huffs. Keith can imagine him standing there, hands planted on his hips, one leg popped out like he’s posing for a magazine cover. _Google Earth always taking photos,_ he’d told Keith. “And where are— a-ha! Trashbags.”

“You’re cleaning my house.” Keith’s raises his eyebrows in disbelief and huffs a laugh. “Seriously?”

“This is serious business, man.” Lance shuffles out into the living room with a trash bag and starts swooping for all the crinkly debris on the carpet. Keith stares. “What if my mom saw? She would be here every week, chasing after you with a Swiffer.”  
  
“When will your mom ever be in my house?” The idea sounds laughable coming out but Keith lets it capture him all the same. Does Lance’s mom look like him? Do they have the same eyes? He squints at how Lance pushes out his tongue between his teeth, clawing for wrappers shoved under the coffee table.

Lance looks up and catches his gaze before he can look away. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Keith flushes. “No,” he mutters, tugging the covers around his cheeks. “Just was wonderin’ if your mom looks like you.”

The other man has to straighten at that. He tilts his head to one side and sizes Keith up, the strangest expression on his face. “I guess she does,” he finally replies. He sinks back into a kneel to tug at a wad of paper towels pinched under a laundry basket. “But softer. Rounder.” Lance pauses, adjusting the bag’s volume with a brisk shake. “She says I look more like my dad, actually.”

“Your dad?” Keith tries to think back to another time when Lance might’ve mentioned him. “What’s he like?”

Lance’s mouth quirks into a crooked line, canines peeking out from his lips. His nose is all scrunched up like he’s smelled something awful. “I wouldn’t know,” he says ruefully. “Guy left before I had a chance to see.”

 _Oh._ Keith can’t help how his mouth opens silently before pressing it shut again. He swallows and shifts up higher in bed to lean against the wall. Lance has his back to him now, busying himself with a spot in front of the sliding glass door, but he can’t mask the way his shoulders scrunch by his ears.

“Me too,” Keith blurts, and _oh god_ , now Lance goes absolutely still. He’s frozen bent over, hands trailing onto the carpet. _I killed him_ , Keith thinks miserably. “I mean, I don’t know my dad either. Or I did, but not enough to _know_ him.” He licks his lips. “Does.. that make sense? He’s not..” He fidgets with the edge of the covers, thumbs trailing over the shitty gap-tooth stitches. “It was just me and this neighbor of ours. And her daughter. And her shitty little Pomeranian named Jinkies.”

Lance fiddles with the edge of the bag. He still won’t turn around and Keith is a damn liar if he says he isn’t ready to fling himself out a window.

“Jinkies?” Lance asks softly.

“Yeah. He was a shitty little rat dog — always shivering, and he would scream if we didn’t let him sit on the couch with us while we ate.” Lance’s shoulders stark to sink, sparking a flicker of desperation in Keith’s chest. “He never wanted anything,” he continues carefully. “Just stared at me and shit.”

“‘And stop starin’ with those big old eyes,’” Lance mumbles. He turns just enough to let the afternoon light glance off one cheekbone, warming the earthy tone of his skin. His lips are pressed tight but curve at the corners — a small, teeny smile, flickering candle-weak.

“Exactly.” Keith lets the covers fall around his waist and tucks his legs up. The tide of memories rush forward at a rate that should alarm him, falling and overlapping like crashing waves. He’s always so careful to never get wet when he’s alone.

But Lance is _here_ and Keith isn’t afraid to let him swim. Not if they swim together.

“He lived for nine years,” Keith says. He hasn’t thought about that dumb dog in years, but he can see his wet eyes bulging up from the carpet as if it were yesterday. “Sometimes I used to think Mama Maggie liked him better than she liked either of us.” Something like nostalgia stutters in his sternum, aching and sweet.

Lance leaves the bag beside the pile of laundry to come sit on the edge of the bed. The bedframe groans under the unfamiliar weight, dipping to surround his slender frame. Keith feels the heat of him on one calf but can’t will himself to move away.

If Lance notices how they press together he doesn’t say anything. He leans back on his hands and sighs, staring at the ceiling.

“We have a cat named Luna,” he offers. “But before that we had Rosita, and before that, Pepita.” He laughs. “They were rats. We begged to have a pet and she wouldn’t start any bigger than that.”  
  
All Keith knows about rats is that they carried the Black Plague. When he lets Lance know, he can’t help but smile at how the man’s whole face lights up, blue eyes snapping with sparks. He leans close enough to place his palms between Keith’s stretched knees and beams.

“It’s settled then. I’m taking you to the pet store. You’re going to experience some serious rat-packed action.” He leans in and taps one of Keith’s knees. “They’re so cute you’ll want to _die._ Or take all of them home.”  
  
Keith swallows the fluttering in his chest and grins. “I’ll try to prepare myself then.” He imagines himself inside of some store that smells like food pellets and sawdust, peering into glass cages smudged by foreign, unwashed hands. With Lance, it sounds like the best thing since sliced bread.  
  
“It’s a date,” Lance announces. Keith stares up at the ceiling fan and wills his warm face to cool.

“Yeah,” he echoes faintly. “It’s a date.”

+

On October 1st, Keith goes on the first maybe-romantic-maybe-not outing of his life.

It’s almost tragic. He spends way too long kicking around the mounds of clothes on his floor, trying to find the right shirt (read: a collared shirt that doesn’t stink). _Then_ he spends an abnormal amount of time staring at his reflection.

“If Acxa were here she’d have some advice,” he tells his reflection. The man in the mirror grimaces at the idea. It’s better that she never knows what he’s up to — she’d never leave if she did.

Still, all of his efforts seem utterly wasted when he steps outside.

If Lance normally cuts a striking figure, he transcends into a 90’s movie-version of a wet dream this evening. Keith catches one glance of him at the closed doors of _Mick’s Mart_ — tight, tight denim slashed open at the thighs and knees, a threadbare white shirt with the sleeves torn away and the sides exposed, satin jacket tucked under one defined bicep — and nearly runs away. How did he end up with _that_?

“Keith, hey!” He raises one arm and waves, flashing a sliver of dark skin and a light happy trail that pops a bullet right into Keith’s poor skull. “Was worried you’d show me up or something.”  
  
“No,” he croaks, wiping sweaty palms on his butt pockets. If he’d known Lance was going to roll up spick and slick he might’ve picked out a better pair of jeans. As it stands, he’s quite sure this pair has its own dark aura.

“We’ve got about an hour to go chill at Allura’s, and then we can pick out a place to eat. How does thai food sound?”

“Peachy.” Keith crams his hands into his pockets before they can start twitching. He doesn’t miss the way Lance’s eyes sweep over him carefully, pausing at his combed hair and tight, clean shirt. “What?”

“Nothing,” the other man singsongs. His eyes flicker up to meet Keith’s and he smiles devilishly. “Just admiring your efforts.”  
  
“Efforts?” Keith scoffs, pushing past Lance to walk in front. He thumbs at the bottom of his fringe uncertainly. “Does.. it look bad?”

“No, no. You’re fine.” Lance catches up easily, widening his stride to be slightly in front. _Is he swinging his hips like that on purpose?_ Keith tries very hard to stay focused on the uneven sidewalk and fails. “Just fine.”

Perky Paws ends up being right in between a laundromat and a closed tanning salon, just small enough to appear utterly unassuming at a glance. The front door is closed and gated but Lance walks right up anyway and presses the buzzer. Keith stares down at the welcome mat. A dog who looks alarmingly like Jinkies stares right back.

“Oh, you made it!” The door clicks open on squeaky hinges, revealing one of the prettiest girls Keith has ever seen. She flashes both of them a smile rivaling Lance’s and tucks one strand of silvery-white hair behind an ear. “And you brought along a friend, just like you said.”  
  
“This is Keith,” Lance chirps, stepping aside. “Keith, this is Allura.”

Allura wastes no time stepping forward and shaking his hand, lipgloss sparkling in the half-light. It’s sort of distracting. “Pleasure to meet you,” she beams, tugging him inside. Lance follows, shutting the door behind them with a soft _click._ “I’ve heard so much.”

He frowns. “Good or bad?” Oh god, did Lance tell her about the _cheese incident?_

“Not to worry,” she replies, moving past them down the hallway. “I promise it was all, ah, in your best interest.”  
  
_What the fuck does that mean?_ Keith eyeballs Lance, who suddenly has found the most interesting patch of paint on the ceiling. “Is that so,” he says flatly.

“Oh yes, it was all very _descriptive_ and oh, look! The kittens are still awake. Do come into the cat room, they love guests.” Allura ushers them into a side door faster than they can comply.

Keith suddenly finds himself the focus of several pairs of very big eyes.

“This is Red,” she announces, approaching one shelf. A fluffy tabby cat screams in response, brown eyes drilling right into Keith’s face. “He’s two months old and very talkative.”

“Hello Red,” Keith echoes faintly. Oh lord, she’s already taking the cat out. Is he supposed to _hold_ it? What if he breaks it? Panicky, Keith searches for Lance and finds him wandered off to another cat building, cooing at the grey cats inside. “Um, do you want me to..?”

“Oh yes! He’d love that.” Allura slips the bundle of fur into his palms with surprising care, dark fingers curling around his to showcase how to hold it. Tiny whiskers tickle Keith’s palms with fur soft as the fancy blankets on Maggie’s old bed, whispering over his fingerpads. The little thing trembles like a leaf and squeaks mewls so high, they prickle Keith's eardrums. He marvels at the tiny needles of its claws clinging to his shirt.

"He's so small," he breathes, brushing over one ear. Red bumps his head into Keith's palm, forcing him to scratch behind his ears. "Was.. he born here?"

"Not quite." Allura perches herself against a cat condo, another kitten wrangled into her arms when Keith wasn't looking. She tickles underneath its chin absentmindedly. "We got a lot of animals right around the first of August. Side effects of the news and all." Her bottom lip curls. "So many people just went and dumped their animals. Only thinking about their own welfare when their pets need them most."  
  
"So Red was..?"

"Part of a fresh litter. A woman dumped them all off in a carrier in the middle of the night. Poor things were starving when I got here at 7am."  
  
Red curls up tight into the cradle of Keith's arms and starts purring as loud as his little body can handle. Keith clutches him tighter, bringing his arms up closer to his collarbone so he can breathe in the kitten's soft fur. _Abandoned_ , a little voice in his head observes quietly. _Just like you._

But this is different. Keith was old enough to see the signs, old enough to know why he was left alone. Mankind is a creature of habit — the signs were all on the walls, tucked into the torn mail on the table, seeping into their mobile-home's cheap carpet. Red never saw his loss coming.

Moments of impulsiveness ride Keith's bones like a quick hit, pouring flash magma into his veins. He isn't stricken often, but staring into Red's tiny face lights a fire that spreads under his collarbone, choking his lungs with black smoke. He thumbs at the soft kitten-down on Red's back.  
  
"How much to adopt him?"

"Seriously?" Lance pokes his head out from behind another cat condo, a big grey cat balanced on one shoulder. "You're gonna take him home?"

"I—" Keith stares helplessly down at Red. "I don't know," he finishes lamely. "I just feel like I should. He deserves it."  
  
"Have you ever had a cat before?" Allura asks, blue eyes wide. "Any pets?"

"A small dog. It was a long time ago." Keith winces, thinking about how it sounds. "Should I wait, or— "

"No, no. I appreciate you willing to reach out." Allura pauses, smoothing one hand down her own cat's back. "But, before you adopt him on a whim, how about you try coming to visit?" She nods to a small sign on the wall. "I can let you spend time with Red and show you how to take care of him. And then, in a couple of weeks or so, if you're _really_ ready.." She beams. "What do you think?"

"Okay," Keith mumbles, hiding his face in Red's side. He can feel his tiny heartbeat thumping into his palms, synchronizing sweetly with the inflation of tiny lungs. "I'll do it."

They sit with the cats for a few minutes longer before Allura announces it to be kitty bedtime. Keith carefully places Red back into his bed, adjusting a stuffed animal to rest near his paws. He feels a little silly tucking in this animal like a baby, because what does he know about babies, or small things in general? Is this a mistake?  
  
"Red will be here when you come back," Lance reminds him, one hand on his shoulder. "Come on. Remember the rat party I promised you? We have to go check them out."

 

Rats, Keith discovers, are less of a party than one might think.

"Are you sure he isn't going to bite me?" He asks doubtfully, peering into the cage. Two inches from his nose, an orange and black patched rat squeaks and skitters about, beady black eyes trailing Keith's shadow. It's almost cute — if not for the fat, long naked tail and sharp teeth when opens its mouth.

"Don't be silly," Lance says breezily. He reaches into the cage as if it's muscle memory, sliding the rat carefully into his hands to hold. "Here. This is Spook. Say hello, Spook."

Keith and the rat stare at each other for a long moment.

"This is the part where you say hi back," Lance mutters.

"Right." Keith's eyes dart from the man's raised eyebrow to the animal in his hands. It's a lot bigger up close, using its tiny feet to stand up in one of Lance's hands while he supports its belly. "Hi Spook."

"Spook is my rat in-law," Lance continues, plopping Spook on one shoulder. The rat chitters but doesn't make any move to kamikaze off, settling itself into cleaning the inside of his ear. "He's technically a descendant of the great Pepita." He grimaces. "Mama says we can't have a rat with Luna around now so I come visit him here. Look, isn't he awesome?" He rubs the rat in between its tiny ears with one finger, beaming proudly.

"He's definitely a rat," Keith observes. Hesitantly, he extends one hand forward to brush down Spook's spine. To his surprise, Spook is almost as soft as Red.

"Here, let's sit down. That way we can let him run around for a bit." Lance tugs him down onto the floor and shows him how to sit spread-legged, connecting their feet at the soles to make a human cage. Spook runs from leg to leg, sniffing around the cuff of Keith's pants. He wrinkles his nose at how all the whiskers tickle against his ankle like little feathers.

"If he likes you enough he'll usually let you rub his ears too," Lance adds, happily trailing his fingers over Spook's back when he skitters by. "He's a happy guy."

Keith leans back on his hands and looks around. There isn't too much to the room; aside from the massive rat condo that dominates one wall, there are hamster buildings and bright pink, fluffy shag carpets. Framed photos of who are probably customers speckle the walls, crammed together tight enough to fit them all in. One right above the rat condo is bigger than the rest.

There's a lot to the photo that he doesn't know how to ask about: the two front teeth missing in Lance's smile, the long-haired fluffball in his hands, the man who looks like Allura standing behind one shoulder.

In fact, there are so many people crammed into the photo around Lance that it's almost astounding. There are people who are obviously siblings, a woman who must be his mother, his grandmother. Even Allura is crammed in on one side, beaming in a fluffy white-blonde ponytail.

_You’re lucky to have a family like that._

_Yeah, I know._

Keith swallows hard and looks away.

“Hey, are you okay?” Lance frowns. “You look kinda—”

Flo Rida erupts from Lance’s back pocket like a pop-up club, startling them both. Lance’s fingers fumble to wrench it out without breaking their leg barrier, and he smushes it up to his face without even looking at the contact info.

“Hello?” His eyes meet Keith’s. “Josie? What’s wrong, why—” His free hand freezes and twists into the carpet fibers. “Of course I’m sitting down, I’m at Allura..”

Keith has never exactly been any sort of optimist. It isn’t that he _thrives_ on others’ sour feelings — mad people are so unreasonably frustrated — but he can appreciate a good call-back to Earth’s surface. _Always remember to keep your feet on the ground_ , Mama Maggie had always said.

What he would give to hold Lance up in the clouds just a little longer.

There’s nowhere to go. He has to sit and watch as Lance’s knees find gravity, as he hurdles into the earth hard enough to break ankles and shins. He shivers and shivers, fingers squeezing too tight around his phone, lips parting and closing in time with the razor pinch of his eyes. He doubles over — broken ribs, broken arms — and curls in on himself, one hand viciously tearing into his hair.

Gravity is never gentle to anyone, least of all a dreamer.

He finally hangs up after what could have been five minutes of silence. Keith holds his breath, doesn’t dare to break the swollen silence. Even Spook is utterly still next to his calf.

“Lance?” Allura whispers from the doorway.

His head snaps up and the ugly dread forming in Keith’s stomach is nothing compared to the knife’s blade tearing in between his ribs. Lance can barely hold on, eyes trying to hold back glistening tears that spill over and track down his cheeks.

“Cuba,” he chokes. “Allura— the weather reports—”  
  
“Don’t speak,” she says hurriedly, tripping forward to pick up Spook and put him back. She gathers Lance into standing and leaning into her side. His mouth stretches harshly as he gasps, whole frame wracked with the effort to force deep breaths into tight lungs. “Come on, let’s go get you some water. Did you walk here?” Icy-blue eyes snap up to meet Keith’s.

“Oh— yeah.” He coughs, wiping suddenly clammy hands into his pants. “We did.”

“I’m going to call Josie to come get you,” Allura says firmly. She presses her lips to Lance’s temple, hands rubbing up and down his back slowly. “She’s going to come and take you home.”  
  
The three of them fumble out of the rodent room and down the hall into a back area that’s clearly Allura’s house of sorts. She plunks Lance down onto a futon decorated in purple doilies and rushes to tug a blanket over his legs. Keith hovers in the doorway, wavering between taking a seat beside Lance and bolting.

“Keith.” Her lips are a thin line. “Sit.”

He sits.

They wait in silence for what must be ten minutes: Allura pacing frantically in front of the window, her shadow rippling across the carpet; Lance, frozen under lavender blankets, his face already swelling into a broken mask; Keith, heart hammering in his throat, perched precariously on the edge of the couch.

“Storms aren’t supposed to change that fast,” Lance finally whispers. Keith looks over and suddenly is staring into bloodshot eyes. “They aren’t supposed to..”

 _They do in the world we live in_ , Keith thinks grimly. _They do in the world we’ve made._

He slides one hand forward, reaching to take the lump he’s pretty sure is Lance’s clenched fist. Even through the blanket he trembles like a tightly wound spring.

“I know,” Keith murmurs, gripping tight. “I know.”

+

News passes in fleeting strips of video and sound. Boppy tunes about broken hearts intermix with news reports about category fives while grainy photos of house foundations and crying children smear with rain, bleeding ink into the sidewalk. Keith steps over bold headlines about mass power outages and flicks on switches because it’s all he knows how to do. It’s all anyone knows how to do.

Tuesdays roll by in silence. Not because the taqueria is closed, but because Keith can’t bring himself to go and see the empty hollows where eyes should be on Lance’s face. He closes his eyes and dreams of houses swallowed by black waves, of electric lines shooting enough power to kickstart and explode hearts right in their chests.

Dreams are full of the dead now. He can’t bear to see them in the faces of the living, too.

Whatever passes on the other side of town is beyond Keith’s scope — he walks as far as the grocery and then back again. Once or twice he sees Matt again, but the words crumble dry on his tongue before he can squeeze them out. He supposes Pidge must be doing alright or Matt wouldn’t still be pushing open-to-close shifts moving stock.

Or maybe he would, if that’s all he knows.

Just crawl and crawl.

Keith wakes from shattered glass and dark showers to the first rain of the season. He no longer has to fear morning texts from Acxa —  she’s settled for seeping through the walls to watch his every unscrupulous move. Keith sees bruises under his eyes and hears her; he scrapes together a fourth day of pasta and can feel her over one shoulder. She is a well-to-do ghost haunting his waking hours.

Being back to square one wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t _care._ He never used to, before Lance eeled his way into the gaps of his walls, lighting up the world from the inside out. He had been perfectly content to waste his time until he died.

But it’s all fucked, now. He can’t settle in the shadows because he knows how the sun feels; he can’t slip into nightmares because he’s gotten used to dreams full of Lance. Keith feels like some sort of misfortunate vampire, or maybe a plague — the dark he blanketed himself in has bled onto Lance, swallowing him as sure as it used to engulf Keith.

He wants to fix it, but how? How can you fix a millennia of human development, turn back the tide of global warming, turn back the tide of immigration, of emigration, of convoluted new social norms and wastefulness to make the world pure?

Keith dreams of the dead and wakes to walk among them. There’s nothing to fix, because everything is unfixable.

And so the days pass, and October 23rd crawls ever closer.

+

He opens his eyes one evening and the world is black and white.

This alone isn’t cause for a panic. When the world is wont to rip itself in half and suicide through space at nearly seventy-thousand miles an hour, little things like losing color aren’t too much of an issue. Not in Keith’s book anyway.

The problem here is that he’s sitting on a stool in Mick’s Mart, and the digital clock won’t move past 11:57p.m.

It’s been so long since a dream has occurred that he’s almost forgotten the sensation — buzzing in his arms and legs, a strange emptiness hovering where his intestines should be. He drops his feet to the floor and the blurring around his feet all he needs to know.

_He’s here somewhere. But where?_

“Do you have any altoids?”

Keith blinks and the world shifts ever so slightly, enough to revolve a full cycle and pour color into the mold of Lance’s shape.

His hands, mottled with cooking scars and half-faded pen ink, tap against the counter erratically. There’s a tiny cut in his lip where it’s clear he chewed until bleeding, and shadows dark enough to rival Keith’s closet pressed under bloodshot eyes. If it weren’t for the long slope of his mouth and the upturn of his nose, he might have been a stranger.

 _Wrong._ He could never be just a stranger. Not while the earth is still turning.

“If you don’t have any, I can just go somewhere else,” he says, sliding his hands into his jacket. Keith can’t stop looking at the sharp angles of his face, at the way his eyelashes brush his cheeks. It’s been barely two weeks and he’s a man drowned, staring up at a surface he doesn’t recognize.

“Sorry,” he finally manages to choke. He reaches under the counter and pulls out a lighter— cheaply-made and overpriced, covered in a wrap-around image of a naked girl. There’s a price tag over her rack. “We do have this, though.”

The other man takes the lighter, turning it slowly in his hands. His fingernail catches where the sticker looks to have been half-peeled before, barely leaving any modesty.

But Keith has always been so careful to tag the lighters just right.

He makes the mistake of looking up, of letting icy blue eyes trap him where he stands and pin him to the floor with invisible nails. Slowly, slowly, the man places the lighter back on the counter.

“On that first day,” the man murmurs. “The first time we met at Primo’s. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do.” Keith swallows. His hands are numb. “I remember.”  
  
That long mouth stretches thin.“You called me Lance.” The man blinks, bright eyes suddenly glossy with tears that send a jolt of panic straight to Keith’s heart. His voice barely croaks out. “You called me by my _name_.”

“So, what? Did you not want those guys to know?”  
  
“Keith,” he hisses, slapping one palm on the counter. The world is grayscale but his eyes are so _blue_ , bright enough to pierce through Keith’s skin and needle his lungs. “ _I never told you my name._ ”

What do you say? When the world has been slowly revolving, turning just fast enough to remind you that time is limited, that your life is limited, and you take it for granted. When your ceiling cracks above you and rains glass onto soft skin, and the whole world shudders to a stop too fast for you to ever brace yourself. You knew it was coming but you still built your glass house with all of its niceties, still lined the books on the shelves just so and marveled the sunset. You felt it coming and believed yourself when you said it wouldn’t, and now who is the fool?

What do you _say_?

“You’re wrong,” he whispers. “You’re _wrong._ You told me on— on that day—”

“That day at the _beach_ .” Tears freefall down his cheeks. His eyes are blue, blue, blue. He’s brighter than Keith can bear to look at. “Keith, there _is_ no beach. There hasn’t been for almost six years.”

Of course he knew that. He _knew_ that. But when he thinks back to those blurry pictures — curling into a slide, sunset pouring over sands, salt-crusted fingers scooping alongside his own — the memories feel _real._

 _I was there_ , he wants to protest. But none of it could ever be real.

“I don’t get it,” Lance sniffs, wiping at one eye with his fist. “I don’t. Here I was thinking that you were just waiting to tell me. I thought it was a _game_ .” He shakes his head and sucks in a deep breath. “But you never did. You never said _anything_ , and I just—”

Keith stares in horror as his whole frame crumples in on itself, shoulders curling inward, chin tipping down. Lance peeks up at him through wet, dark lashes.

“If you don’t want me, you should have just told me,” he whispers. “I get it. I know I’m ugly and stupid and _going nowhere_ —” He hiccups painfully, eyes squeezing out more tears. “But I _wish_ you hadn’t just let me think that we could have been something.”  
  
_This isn’t real. You aren’t real._

 _Aren’t I? Aren’t_ you?

Keith stares unseeing at the counter. The world is beginning to crumble in on itself like burning paper; the black spreads to swallow light, bleeding inward towards the epicenter where they stand. He can feel himself slipping, falling backwards with his eyes wide open, and he wills himself to speak but _can’t._

“I’ve already lost so much.” Lance’s voice carries even as Keith is blinded, smothered, choking. “I was hoping I could at least have you.”

 

Keith wakes in a cold sweat, his heart racing fast enough to rip straight out of his chest and start walking. He gets up and paces around the small space of his livingroom for an hour.

The balcony screen taps against the glass where the wind presses it. He slides to the carpet to stare at the empty space outside.

_Nice place. Feels kinda familiar somehow._

He stays awake the rest of the night.

+

When he steps into Mick’s Mart the next morning, he’s almost afraid he’ll fall through the floor. He peeks through all the aisles for strangers and notes all the colors in the room — not because he thinks he’s dreaming, but to _make sure._

 _Hypocrite,_ Acxa snaps from behind a shelving of cereal. _Make fun of people believing why don’t you? Just look at yourself._

“You were right,” he whispers, gloved hands clenching around cans of soda. “I get it now.”

He mechanically goes through the motions of the morning, arranging and rearranging, stocking and restocking. Numbers are easier than speaking to her shadow again.

The hours tick by and only the usuals come in — that is to say, all the usuals before Keith met Lance. He checks his phone constantly, thinking maybe he’s missed a text, a call. There’s nothing.

Keith paces that gap behind the counter until the ruts must have grown. He can hardly hear VH1 over the clamoring of his thoughts, over the soft husk of Lance’s voice in his memories.

 _God_ . He told Lance right to his face that he was beautiful. Keith bites his lip and flushes harder than he has in weeks, hot and itchy all over. _And then there was that time we kissed on my balcony.._

The question now stands: can dreams be part of reality? He’s been so careful to separate the two into perfect, untouchable spheres that he doesn’t know how to let them touch. To think he’s walked a beach he’s never seen, that he’s touched Lance in ways he only, well, _dreamed_ of, is nearly impossible to grasp.

To think that Lance had always believed in dreams. To think that he watched and waited for Keith to reciprocate what he refused to call _real._

 _He flirted with you for weeks,_ Acxa sighs from the cigarette rack. _And you sat there._

And now he’s gone and lost it all. How long has it been since he saw Pidge or Hunk? How long since he went and saw the rats with Lance, and promised Allura he’d be back for Red?

Keith has never been a day-counter or a week-planner. But he knows somebody who is.

The dates on their last texts are nearly three weeks old at this point. Keith winces and presses _dial_ before the irrational half of his brain convinces him to put the phone down.

_Ring. Ring. Ring. Rin—_

“Keith?” Acxa sounds so normal, so _familiar,_ that Keith could honestly puke. He has half a mind to— but that can wait for later.

_After I fix this._

“Acxa,” he chokes, fingers gripping the cell tightly. “Can we talk for a minute?”

+

The run from Mick’s Mart to Primo’s is the longest in Keith’s short, miserable life. He closes shop ten minutes early and throws himself out the door faster than any part of legs should comfortably go, hurtling over sidewalk cracks and driveway dips on burning shins and aching calves. Gravel sprays under his sneakers to disturb litter, spiraling away as he jaywalks and dodges honking cars.

Past the gas station. Past the abandoned DIY car wash. Past the laundromat. Past the pet store. He nearly gives out climbing the last big hill, thighs screaming for him to slow down. His body feels like it might explode from the heat, pants clinging too tight to sweaty legs and fingers clenched tightly into fists.

Primo’s lot is just about empty aside from a single girl sweeping the pick-up walkway. Keith slows to a stop in front of her and bends over, wheezing.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Are— are you _dying_?”

“Lance,” he pants. He lifts his head up enough to look her in the eyes — eyes bright, piercing blue. “Where’s Lance?”

She frowns, brow furrowing and lips tightening in a way that is so familiar that Keith could laugh if he wasn’t about to fall over. “He’s cleaning up the kitchen. Who are you?”

“Please,” Keith wheezes. “It’s an emergency.”

Whatever she sees in his face is enough to set the broom aside. “I’ll be right back. Um, stay here okay?” She makes a jog for the open back door. “Lance! ¡ _Hay alguien aqui para ti!_ ”

Keith stares at his reflection in an oily puddle. His hair is sticking to his forehead in wild tendrils like he ran through a storm, cowlicks snarling this way and that. He’s embarrassingly pink as well, almost enough to be sunburnt.

“You look like shit.” He whips his head up fast enough to give himself whiplash. “No offense or anything.”

“Lance,” Keith croaks.

He looks.. the same as he did in Keith’s dream. The same dark shadows and mussed hair, the same bitten lips. The only difference is that cast in color, Keith can see how wan his skin has become, how dull it is under the grimy orange streetlights. He tries to swallow and finds his mouth utterly dry.

“You said it was an emergency?” Lance huffs, popping one hip. He crosses his arms and rakes his gaze over Keith’s sweaty frame. “What do you want? I’m in the middle of cleaning stoves.”

The cold edge of his voice makes Keith flinch. “I just wanted..” He clears his throat. “I wanted to let you know. I dreamt about you.”

Lance stares, unimpressed. “So?”

“So..” He runs one hand through his hair, wincing at how the strands slide under his palm. “I thought about what you said. In the dream. And I just wanted to say that.. I’m sorry.”

“For what, leading me on for months? Or for dropping off the face of the earth?”

Keith scowls. “It wasn’t just _me_ who disappeared, _you_ didn’t even bother to send a text!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Lance snaps, going rigid. “I was just so busy mourning I forgot to call! For God’s sake, not everything is about _you_ , Keith.”

“I’m not saying it is!” Keith sighs, shaking his head. “No, this isn’t what I wanted to talk about. Just, just let me—” In an attempt to step forward he nearly faceplants into the puddle, toe catching over uneven pavement. Lance swoops forward to catch him at his shoulders.

This close he can see a sheen of grease near one temple, and how sweat collects at Lance’s hairline. He smells spicy sweet underneath everything else. Like cinnamon sugar.

“You have five seconds to explain yourself,” Lance says, jerking his hands away. “I’m walking back inside and you can go back wherever you came from. Five.”

“Lance, _please—_ ”

“Four.”  
  
“Why won’t you just—”  
  
“ _Three.”_

“I’m in love with you!” Keith explodes. He flushes immediately, a hot wave of blood rushing to every surface pore on his body. “I mean, I’m on the way there. I have been for a while. And I know I fucked up by not telling you or anything but it wasn’t because you were ugly or unlikeable — you’re one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met — but because I _didn’t think it was real._ ”  
  
Lance stares openmouthed.

“And, and I know that sounds crazy,” Keith pushes on, tearing his hands through his hair. “I know it’s been happening to everybody. But I didn’t do anything because I honestly believed that, I don’t know, I didn’t deserve it. I’ve been a fuck-up my whole life and I’ve never just been _handed_ shit, so like, all this soulmate and destiny stuff is so, so—”  
  
“You’re telling me,” Lance interjects. “You’re telling me you fucked around and didn’t say anything because you _thought you didn’t deserve it?_ What about _me_? You made me think you didn’t want me, or that I was gross or something.” He scowls. “My self-esteem took a huge fucking blow because of you!”

“I’m sorry!” Keith throws up his hands. “You’re not gross! You’re not undesirable! You’re perfect just the way you are!”

“Oh my god,” Lance mutters, covering his face with his hands. “This is ridiculous. You can’t just _shout_ this shit in a parking lot and expect to fix it!”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Keith admits, wringing his hands. “I didn’t want to risk sleeping again and not seeing you.”

“What, did you think I was going to magically disappear?”

“I mean,” Keith flushes. He chews one lip. “You already did once, so.. “

“This is ridiculous,” Lance repeats. “ _You’re_ ridiculous. _I’m_ ridiculous— ”  
  
“I said I was sorry—”  
  
“Because I can’t believe I’m forgiving you.”

Keith freezes. Peeks up through his lashes. Lance has uncrossed his arms to let them dangle at his sides. His mouth is all twisted up like he’s sucking on something sour.

“You’re.. forgiving me?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Lance takes one step forward. “I’m taking you back like the huge loser that I am.” He takes another. “I could never stay mad at you forever anyway.”  
  
“Because I’m your soulmate?” Keith whispers.

Lance shakes his head smiles weakly. “Because you’re Keith.”

They fall into each other ungracefully, Keith’s hands fumbling around Lance’s waist, Lance’s own hands scrabbling up his back to loop around his shoulders. Keith presses his fingers into the dip of Lance’s back, tracing the bumps of his spine beneath his t-shirt. Lance shivers and holds on a little tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into Lance’s shoulder. “I should have been there. I’m so sorry.”

His breath heaves out all at once in a rush, ruffling Keith’s hair. “You’re here now, aren’t you? That’s what matters.”

 _You can’t let him go,_ Acxa demanded over the phone line. _When it all boils down to it, you’ve got each other. Don’t throw that gift away._

For once he wouldn’t mind listening to Acxa. Just this once.

“Hey, Lance.” Keith lifts his head from Lance’s shoulder. “Can I ask you something?”

“You already did,” he jokes, and then sighs. “Of course. What is it?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Oh.” He sucks in a soft breath and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Keith marvels at how his eyelashes curl on the ends, honey-gold under the lamplight. “I thought.. you’d never ask.”

They lean in slow enough to rest their foreheads together for a moment, just like they dreamed of. Keith remembers that yellow slide and how the sunset lit up everything in Lance’s face like a beautiful beacon. _Everything is just like I dreamed._

But the kiss, as it turns out, is even better.

“Keith,” Lance pants, breaking away to breathe. “Um, are you just happy to see me, or..?”

“What?” Keith blinks, nonplussed. “Oh, my phone.” He holds Lance with one arm to wrest his cell from his pocket, squinting against the blue light to turn off the alarm. “It’s telling me it’s my birthday.”  
  
“Your birthday?” Lance splutters. “You forgot your own _birthday_?” He plops his cheek against Keith’s shoulder and chokes out a laugh. “Nevermind. It’s you we’re talking about.”

“Is that an insult?” Keith sniffs. “I could just walk home you know. Nothing is stopping me.”  
  
“Don’t be contrary. Come here.” Lance tilts his head and presses his lips gently to Keith’s — a chaste kiss, sweet and soft. Keith feels like he might faint from the fluttering in his gut. “Happy birthday, Keith,” he whispers, mouth grazing warm skin.

“Thanks,” Keith mumbles. He bumps his nose against Lance’s gently and can’t help but smile. “Something tells me it’s going to be the best I’ll ever have.”

 

 


	2. Epilogue: Goodbye to a World

_"Thank you, I'll say goodbye soon_  
_Though its the end of the world,_  
_Don't blame yourself now_  
_And if its true,_  
_I will surround you and give life to a world_  
_That's our own."_

++

 

“Alright. I'm going over the list one last time.”

“You can't be serious. You've gone over it five times already!”

Lance flops on the bed with all the dramatism of an actress going for her Oscar, startling Red out of his nap. He rolls on his side and squints at Keith, tugging the miffed cat close to his chest.

“Easy for you to say. You're not the one meeting your in-law!”

Keith’s hand slips from where he's trying to close the blinds and he smacks into the sliding glass with all the grace of a drunk hippo. “Oh my God,” he groans from the floor. “Don't _say_ shit like that.”

“Why not? That's basically what she is, isn't she?” Lance raises an eyebrow. “Unless you don't want to be my soulmate anymore?”

“I'm pretty sure that's not how it works.” Keith sighs, righting himself against a pile of laundry. “You're kinda stuck with me forever. And anyway, it's just Acxa. She's not going to eat you just because we have mashed yams instead of potatoes.”

“You say that now,” Lance groans. He lets Red go to roll over to face the wall, curling into the covers with an ease born of habit. The small cat hops off the bed to find a quieter place to sleep. “But when I'm being castrated for passing salt instead of butter, you'll be sorry you doubted me.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Don't you have somewhere to be? Like, home?” It's nearly one in the morning now according to the digital on the floor next to his bed. The last time Lance stayed over this late, Josie had swung by to make sure he came home. Apparently Mama Alvarez didn't like impromptu sleepovers.

“Yeah yeah, I'm going.” Lance doesn't move. “Eventually.”

“Come on, I don't want Josie checking on us again. I'll see you tomorrow anyway.”

Lance rolls over and pouts, sticking out his bottom lip as far as it'll go. “But that's so far away.”

Carefully stepping around the piles of mess, Keith makes his way to the bed and flops down next to his soulmate. Even with a pillow smushing half his face grossly and his hair sticking up everywhere, he's the most beautiful thing Keith's ever seen. Beautiful _because_ he can be so mussed and still glow with the light of every star in the sky.

Keith slides one hand across the sheets and rests it in the curve of Lance's neck, thumbing over soft bruises and smooth tendons. Lance flushes softly but doesn't look away.

“I'll see you when I sleep, won't I?” He whispers, blue eyes blinking up at Keith.

“Of course.” He leans in and Lance rises up to meet him automatically, eyes closing sleepily before their lips can touch. Keith presses two more kisses down the line of his jaw, and a third to his ear. “I’ll be there.”

He waits a half hour after Lance finally leaves to get into bed for real. The bed doesn’t hold any of his warmth anymore, but there are traces of something sweet and spicy lingering in the sheets. Cinnamon and sugar.

 _See you soon,_ he thinks warmly. He curls one hand over where Red is tucked against his thigh and shuts his eyes.

 

When he opens his eyes again, his stumpy table and mattress have melted away into open sand. The sea is especially briny this evening, thick with the promise of rain; he lies on his back and stares at cotton-candy clouds that hover just out of reach, swollen bellies dark with moisture. It hardly takes a second for the moisture to curl his hair, stickiness harboring in the folds of his clothes.

A home away from home.

“You’re here.” His hands, warm and familiar, stroke around cold ears and tuck his tousled rat’s nest into something manageable. Keith wishes he could stare at that smile forever; the way the skin around his eyes pinches up, blue eyes sparkling, turns his guts into a smoothie he wouldn’t mind feeling for the rest of his life.

Nine months, now.

He sits up, ignoring how the damp grit sticks to his clothes and itches into the fibers. “Of course,” he murmurs. “I said I would be, didn’t I?”

No matter how many times Keith goes to sleep, the way Lance glows in his dreams is enough to steal his breath away. The beach ruffles him and matches him in a way that few things could, sending glittery sand over legs and salt on an angled, dewy complexion. He’s made of stars.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Lance blushes rosy-pink and leans in to kiss him.

Lance’s breath spills heat through Keith’s lips, a warm shower pouring into his chest. He’s so full of that warmth that he fears his heart might explode. It _aches_. Lance laughs, sugary sweet and low, and the warm showers in Keith’s chest turn to honey and fire, lighting him from the inside out.

Yeah, he could get used to this.

When they finally extricate themselves from the sand, Keith finds the water to be clearer and warmer than ever before. He sticks his hands into the oncoming rush and marvels at the air bubbles streamlined along his knuckles; the water pops and fizzes like a new bath, frothing at ankles and calves, licking under the rolled up cuffs of his jeans. He finds, upon a new wave wetting up his pants, that he doesn’t mind it one bit.

Lance runs ahead into the waves until they splash around his thighs and balloon his shorts. He glows in the fading light, pinks warming his skin and golds glancing off the delicate hairs on his head and eyelashes. Keith hurts the more he stares.

 _All mine_. _I can’t believe he’s all mine._

He follows Lance out into the surf without a second thought. He’d follow him straight into hell and back if he had to. He knows this for certain, now.

“Careful,” he calls, splashing in after him. Their shirts are soaked but everything is warm, warmer than the ocean ever truly could be, warm and light and sticky to their exposed skin. “If you go too deep, you might wake up.”  
“Wrong,” the other man trills back, singsong. “I only wake up if I wanna. Do _you_ want to wake up?”

“No.” He wraps his arms around his soulmate from behind, pressing palms to ribs through his wet shirt. Lance shivers in his grasp and gasps quietly. “I don’t.”

The waves lap at them for what feel like hours. The sun is setting so slowly that Keith would never notice if he weren’t staring at it over his shoulder. They watch, careful and quiet, as the dusty pinks soften into light purples and the fiery corona around the sun flares brighter still.

“I wish we still had _real_ sunsets like this,” Lance murmurs. Keith can’t help but smile at the rumble of his voice through their pressed chests, buzzing against the ear he presses to his cheek. “Then I could take you on a _real_ walk, and _really_ kiss you.”

“You mean you don’t do two of those for real already?”

“Touche,” he dismisses, shrugging. Their chins bump together softly, lips and ears brushing. “It doesn’t feel the same, though, and you know it.”

Keith does know. They can share all the tacos in the world, tiptoe along filthy balconies and suck on slurpees full of chemicals that turn tongues into paint palettes — but it will never be as good as this. The realization aches like an old bruise. Lance deserves more than what he has to give.

_But who’s to say this isn’t real too?_

Keith exhales through his nose and mumbles into Lance’s shoulder, pressing his toothy smile into the fabric there.

“Want a milkshake?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.” He lifts his head and smirks openly, one tooth peeking out and snagging on his lip. “The ones from Ruby’s. With candy bars and sludgy chocolate so thick at the bottom that you need a spoon.”

Lance parts his lips in thought, brows pressing together. “I mean, sure. But we can’t always get what we want.”

“No,” Keith agrees. “But this time we can.”

Changing the world is as easy as believing. The pier builds itself out of Lincoln Logs and fills with fisherman and pedestrians, skaters and jogger mommies chattering as if they’ve always been there. Sky-blue walls and white-trimmed windows rise into existence as if from a pop-up book to stand at pier’s end, old-fashioned pillars sprouting from the ground to bloom brightly through the fog. Keith stares in between his toes and wooden boards appear; down, through the sea-scourged wood and old bolts, the ocean washes back and forth in an endless rhythm.

Lance takes one step forward. His mouth gapes like a fish’s, eyelashes fluttering, fingers curling tightly into his jeans.

“Walk with me?” Keith smiles softly, fingers trailing over his knuckles. He can feel his hands shaking under his touch, clammy and cool in the afternoon gloom.

Lance whips around. His eyes are glassy blue like the ocean, glistening in the corners where tears hang on golden lashes. “You,” he gasps.

“Did you know?” Keith grins. “There’s a lot of photos online. All you have to do is Google them.” He leans forward to tuck stray curls behind Lance’s ear before taking his other hand and squeezing. “It might not be real but it’s better than nothing, right?”

Lance presses his lips together tightly and nods. He squeezes Keith’s hand back and smiles, watery and bright. “Let’s have some shakes.”

Keith has never tried to _make_ the dreams happen before but it doesn’t seem to matter; the second the dream takes hold, Lance fills in all the gaps with his own memories. Cherry plastic seats develop tears and scuffs where they’ve been well-loved. The windows gleam with a faint grimy sheen. Hamburger smell and grease hovers over everything in a heady aroma romanticized by time.

They manage a seat on the second floor, because they can. The booth groans under Keith’s butt every time he moves and the waitress is nondescript in her high ponytail and candy stripes.

“Snickers or Heath?” Lance asks seriously. “Choose carefully. This is a life or death matter.”  
  
Keith leans back in his seat and beams, feeling his stomach flutter as their ankles tangle together. “Heath. _Duh_.” The waitress giggles and floats away on legs that aren’t quite corporeal. “Who in their right mind chooses Snickers?”

“Pidge,” Lance replies gravely. “They order it every time and then fish out the peanuts to eat separately.” He shudders. “Milkshakes shouldn’t _crunch_ like that.”

Keith thinks back to their early Thanksgiving get-together, where Pidge put chips into the turkey salad. None of them had been able to stand it, least of all Hunk; the poor guy practically had a fit when he caught her smushing more in. “That fits her, somehow.”

Lance leans in and rests his head in one palm. “Just wait until Christmas,” he says, reading Keith’s mind. “You don’t want to know what _else_ she puts chips into.”

The waitress comes back before Keith can dare to ask. The milkshake looks picture-perfect with a crown of whipped cream and cherry on top — a picture Lance cuts into immediately, spooning the cherry up into his mouth. His lips curl mischievously as he pops the cherry off its stem, chewing slowly. Keith swallows.

“Sorry,” he giggles. “Did you want that?”

“Not really.” He follows the bob of his Adam’s apple as the cherry goes down, down. “Um. Do you want the whipped cream too?”

“Sure,” Lance responds brightly. He spoons the whipped cream in huge dollops, eating with an abandon that mismatches spectacularly with his immaculate appearance. “Oh my god, this is _so_ good. Too bad you’re lactose intolerant — not that it’s ever stopped you.”

There’s a smear of cream at the corner of his mouth that wiggles when he talks. Keith presses his lips tight against his smile, eyes crinkling at the corners against his will.

“Shiro’s right, you know,” he continues, licking around the spoon’s stem for stray cream. “You should be watching what you eat more. It’s bad for both your gut _and_ your skin.”  
  
“Sure,” he agrees absentmindedly. Before his brain can catch up, he leans in and wipes away what’s left at the corner of Lance’s lips. They both blush simultaneously at the movement; Keith sticks his hand between his thighs and Lance sucks shyly at his spoon, smiling around it.

Outside, the canvas of pinks and oranges has darkened into hues of violet that glitter with the night’s first stars. The last surfers for the evening catch swells with a fluid ease Keith has always admired, and in their wake, the sea becomes undisturbed at its surface. It’s almost time for the nightly fisherman to boat out into the waters.

“The sun always sets,” Lance sighs. His teeth flash white where they click around the clean spoon. “You would think it wouldn’t, with this being a dream and all. Isn’t time supposed to stop?”

“I don’t know.” Keith thinks back to his sleeping body, alone with the digital clock that beeps at the hour. What time is it in the real world? He’s never given it much thought before.

“I wish it would,” Lance murmurs, dipping his spoon into the glass. “I wouldn’t mind it slowing down, just this once.”

They slurp down cold spoonfuls of Heath bar and caramel chocolate until the sides of the glass are scraped clean, until all the lights come on in Ruby’s and every other customer shuffles out for the evening. Tables are cleaned; staff lock up the doors and go home. Darkness falls like a black wave to cover everything beyond their table.

They sit in the dark and twirl spoons around a glass gone cold and dry, legs tangled warm at the calf, talking about everything and nothing until Keith’s voice is hoarse and Lance’s mouth can only make shapes. He doesn’t need to hear him anyway to read lips.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two upcoming projects I'll be working on and posting updates on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/) for, so keep an eye out if you'd like!
> 
>  
> 
> [lyrics from here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W2TE0DjdNqI)


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